


Advent Calendar 2018

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: The English job [41]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Christmas carol vibes, Angst, Bottom John, Christmas, Demisexual Sherlock, First Kiss, First Time, Forgiveness, Gen, M/M, Minor Violence, No Mary, No baby, Not A Fix-It, Not Season/Series 04 Compliant, Reconciliation, Slow Burn, Top Sherlock, What-If, a touch of magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-05 00:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 41,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16800514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: This story is a "what if" of S4: Sherlock and John argue violently and go their own way, but alone they're pining and desperate.Maybe a little magic help will get them back together again. Hey, it's Christmas after all!





	1. 0. Cover and calendar

Hello, and welcome!

The Advent Calendar is here again, but in a slightly different guise this year: it will no longer be 25 stand-alone one shots, but a 25 chapters long fic, each of them inspired by a "winter" word that you can find in this calendar. After three years, I wanted to change the scheme.

The story is a “what if”, but not a fix-it, of S4, where Vivian Norbury was found and neutralized by the Mycroft’s minions, so Mary is alive (don’t worry, it's just because I want her out of the picture without dramas and tears that she doesn’t deserve); besides there will be no children-dogs in wells, or psychotic sisters. What remains of S4 is only a reference to John's cheating, and some quotes in a different context.

And because "things have to get worse, before they get better", the first part of the story is quite angst, but the happy ending is assured.

Enjoy the reading, and may this season be special for everyone of you.


	2. 1. Flurry

Mary got out of the taxi in front of the Diogenes Club, and buttoned her coat: an icy wind blew over London, making her shiver.

It was ironic, in a way: even the weather seemed to say that it was time to find a new shelter; it was a pity, after all she liked the identity of Mary Morstan.

And it was shameless of her to ask for help to Mycroft, after he had already erased everything she had failed to erase from her past. She was indebted to him, but Mycroft was the only one who could create a new identity, untraceable and error-proof, considering the number of people involved, this time.

Or rather, the number of people she hoped were involved.

On this, unfortunately, she had doubts.

Because the most dangerous aspect of the flurries of wind was this: they were unpredictable. For this, she was asking for help from Mycroft, who had been reading the winds for a lifetime; but, she had already her personal backup plan, in case things went wrong. She learned quickly from her mistakes and she didn’t repeat them twice.

She climbed the three steps, rang the bell, made himself announced and entered Mycroft's office.

The man, however, wasn’t alone, Sherlock was there, too, seated next to him, and Mary's face betrayed her surprise: Mycroft didn’t usually act that way.

"Recent developments have made me think that sometimes secrets can be deleterious, almost deadly," Mycroft began, answering her silent question about why he had involved Sherlock.

He was right: Vivian Norbury had been discovered at the last minute because of too many secrets.

"No problem. Actually I think it's better this way," Mary agreed, sitting down and looking Sherlock in the eye. After all, he could unconsciously help her, again, because Mary knew for sure that Sherlock would do anything for John’s good. "After all, this decision involves also the man we both love."

*

John looked at the house of cards he had just built: six floors, almost two decks of cards. Remarkable, considering how much he had drunk.

It was time for dinner, but there was a ghostly silence in the house, and there wasn’t the slightest smell of food.

It was cold, and John confusedly wondered why, then he remembered breaking the window with a framed picture of his wedding day.

Well, the last 24 hours had been... problematic.

He put two more cards on his house, as he had nothing else to do.

_ John opened the door, heard the familiar sounds of the house, and sighed with relief. _

_ He knew he couldn’t continue to be so tense forever, but he couldn’t help it, after having chased his wife around the world and having dealt with the problems of his past for real. _

_ He had been the one who told her that he would take care of her problems, when he forgave her, last Christmas, but right now he was regretting his choice. _

_ In his intentions, that Christmas reconciliation would have to fix everything, but he had been naive to believe that. _

_ Despite Rosie's birth, the relationship with Mary had slowly but surely deteriorated. _

_ They had moved away like two icebergs adrift, because Mary was like a bottomless pit of secrets and lies, and because he still held a grudge against her, to the point that, for a short period, he cheated on her with another woman, and stopped only because Mary had disappeared and he had to find her. _

_ But even after the death of Vivian Norbury, the problems, set aside for a while in a corner, hadn’t disappeared. _

_ "Is it too early to ask for a divorce?" He had said months before, as a joke. _

_ But now it no longer sounded like a joke. _

_ He shook his head: their future wasn’t rosy. _

_ "I am at home." _

_ John climbed the stairs to go to the bathroom, but Mary stopped him. _

_ "Honey, can you come to the kitchen? We need to talk." _

_ "Did something happen? Again?" John sighed, reaching her at the table, and sitting down. He prayed wholeheartedly that the problem this time he wasn’t another killer from her past. _

_ "Not yet," Mary said. She smiled, but John didn’t. _

_ "But it's about you, right? About your previous work," John asked tersely. God, he was so tired of that situation. _

_ Mary shrugged, but didn’t look sorry. _

_ As usual. _

_ "I've been doing this job for more than twenty years and in my past there aren’t only Ajay or Norbury. You must know that I took part in countless operations, even worse than that." _

_ John ran a hand over his face: not exactly what he needed to know, for the sake of their relationship. _

_ "Now their disappearance will be noticed, if it hasn’t already happened, and some of my old acquaintances will guess the truth behind their deaths." _

_ "Acquaintances?" _

_ Mary grimaced. "People with whom I have had several... divergences, and who are still angry at me." _

_ "Strangely, it’s not hard for me to believe it," John snapped, his voice dripping sarcasm. _

_ "The point is that my efforts to defend Mary Morstan's identity may not be enough. And now we can’t afford it. You understand that, don’t you?" _

_ "What do you want me to do, to buy a Kalashnikov and hire a bodyguard for life?" _

_ John was about to yell that it was all her fault, it was time for her to find a solution on her own. _

_ Although it was stupid to believe that Mary didn’t already have a solution. Or two. _

_ "This would only attract attention, instead we must completely disappear." _

_ "How? Do you want to try hikikomori?" [1] _

_ "John! I'm serious." _

_ "So what are you proposing?" _

_ "There is only one solution: we must cancel our current lives, no longer have any contact with the people who are part of them, and disappear without any explanation or goodbye. Then we must move to another country and take on new identities." _

_ She talked in a calm voice, without showing emotions or turmoil, like a teacher during a history lesson. _

_ Dazed, John frowned. _

_ "W... what the hell are you saying?" _

_ "I know, I know that it’s all of a sudden, but I couldn’t predict what would happen," she went on, pragmatically. "Now this solution can seem too drastic to you, but I've already adopted it before, and I know that it works. In time, you will get used to your new life." _

_ "No... I... no!" John stammered. He realized that his words seemed to be those of a whiny child, but he was too upset by that crazy idea to formulate a more articulate answer. _

_ "John, it's not time to hesitate: Sherlock also agrees with me that this is the only way to keep our family safe. Mycroft gave me three blank passports and ID cards, I only need five minutes with a computer and a printer to decide our new names, and before the night our money will already be on an offshore bank account." _

_ "I don’t give a toss about what Sherlock thinks! I'm sick and tired of both of you scheming behind my back, and deciding about my life!" John cried, slamming his fists on the table; Mary jumped, scared by his reaction, and John drew a petty pleasure in having frightened her: perhaps now she would realize that he wasn’t a puppet who could be maneuvered like she wanted, as if his will didn’t count anything. _

_ Mary looked displeased and spread her arms. _

_ "If you have a better idea, I'm anxious to hear it." _

_ "You can’t ask me to throw away my whole existence as if it had never existed." _

_ "Did you hear what I said? There are other people who could harm us, and I'm simply asking you to do what you volunteered to do last Christmas: to protect us." _

_ "Don’t dare to hold that up against me. Don’t dare!" _

_ Mary had the audacity to roll her eyes. _

_ "Calm down: I'm just trying to make you think. Sherlock and I have lived under a false name in the past, so we know what to do and how to move to disappear and avoid the dangers. You just have to trust me, I'll explain how to do it..." _

_ "I'm not like you two crazy psychopaths, I can’t change identity like I was changing a jumper, I'm John Watson!" _

_ "Can’t you, or don’t want you?" She accused him, now openly infuriated by his stubbornness. _

_ "Don’t try to make me feel guilty, because it doesn’t work, and you have no right to do it, not after leaving your daughter behind without second thoughts." _

_ "That was to protect her, you know very well. Besides, you weren’t better than me, as you left her to a couple of friends for months." _

_ "You would condemn Rosie to a life of lies: she wouldn’t even know our real names." _

_ "But Mary is not my real name," she said, "and if, starting from tomorrow, you'd call me Susan or Christine, nothing would change. What you really are doesn’t matter, at all." [2] _

_ "You're wrong, for me it's the only thing that matters!" John replied, crossing his arms on his chest: he was adamant, he wouldn’t take part in that madness. _

_ A long silence followed; Mary seemed to think deeply, and finally sighed: "All right, I give up." _

_ Suddenly she looked tired and resigned. _

_ "Very well, it's the first sensible thing you've said since I set foot in the house tonight." _

_ "I just want to make you understand that I tried with all my might, for the good of our family. I really wanted this family because I love you," she said, but to John's ears it sounded like an accusation rather than a declaration of love, “but I have long understood that the feeling is not reciprocal, not anymore. If it ever was." _

_ John pressed his lips together in a disgusted grimace, but didn’t react to the provocation.  _

_ "I told you that making me feel guilty doesn’t work. And anyway, if you, or Sherlock, or the entire British government think you can move my daughter like she is a parcel, you're completely crazy." _

_ Mary tightened her lips, too: "Is your last answer? Think about it: we could be very happy, the three of us. In Australia, South Africa, in a quiet town in the American province, even in Canada, even if it's too cold for my taste. I would adapt. We could be whoever we want, wherever we want." _

_ "I don’t need to think about it: I'm not going to live a lie for the rest of my life, and I’m not doing this to Rosie. Lies can’t make you happy." _

_ "You’re wrong, that's the truth." _

_ "You're not alright," John snapped. _

_ Mary fell silent again; she lowered her eyes and there was a brief rustle of paper, then she looked back at him. _

_ "Remember, you asked for it." _

_ "Asked what?" _

_ "Rosie is not your daughter," she said slowly. _

_ John's mouth suddenly became dry, and he had to swallow several times before he could speak. _

_ "No, this is just another lie, because you think I'll let her go, but I will not." _

_ The woman lifted a sheet of paper she had kept on her lap all the time: it was a paternity test. _

_ John's world disintegrated under his feet. _

_ "I will not insult your intelligence by asking if you can read it." _

_ "You... how could you, after all I did for you!" _

_ "There was a time when I was uncertain about our relationship and..." _

_ "Are you trying to justify yourself? Seriously?" _

_ "If you really want to continue this conversation, then I'll ask you to show me the messages on your phone, and tell me where you were going on Thursday after work, a few months ago. What would you answer?" _

_ John crumpled the paternity test and threw it to the floor, then he stood up so suddenly that his chair overturned. He kicked it because it hindered his way, and left the house without saying a word. _

_ He had to do it, or he wouldn’t have answered of his actions. He was furious like he had never been in his life, to the point that his head was spinning and blood throbbed in his ears; he wanted to scream, to smash something or to fight. He hoped to stumble into a robber, he even thought of going where the drug dealers or pimps met, just to break someone's bones. _

_ Instead he walked for hours, bought two bottles of cheap beer at a vending machine, sat on the sidewalk, hidden between two parked cars and gulped them one after the other. _

_ A part of him suspected it, after discovering who his wife actually was, a part of him that, when looked at Rosie asleep, searched for his own somatic features in her, without finding them. However, he had always put aside those doubts, telling himself that it was just paranoia, that Mary would never have come this far. _

_ But he was only afraid to find out if his doubts were true. _

_ It was almost dawn when he came home. _

_ There was no one in there. _

_ Some drawers were open, but few clothes had been taken and no personal effects, because when a new life began, the bridges with the past should be cut off, she had said it herself. _

_ The silver frame that enclosed the photo of his wedding sparkled mockingly in the gray light of the morning, at least until John threw it against the window. _

_ Then he took the whiskey, the playing cards, and started building the house of cards. _

A gust of wind crept through the broken glass and the house collapsed.

John wasn’t surprised: it wasn’t a real construction, just a pile of playing cards stacked on each other, a sham.

Only the umpteenth deceit.

And Sherlock had had the nerve to support her in this crazy idea, and to think that John would be okay with that. But he wasn’t surprised of it, either: after all, Sherlock and his wife were the same, and that was the reason why they managed to get along, even if she had shot him.

And now Sherlock was scheming with her to send him away, like he was a parcel, and to deprive him of his identity, without an explanation or even a goodbye.

Sherlock had been important to him, the most important people in his life, to the point that John couldn’t imagine a life where without him, but evidently it wasn’t the same for Sherlock, since he agreed with Mary's plan.

He wasn’t his friend, a friend wouldn’t let him go like that, without a word, without even wanting to see him one last time.

The thought made him furious.

It was all Sherlock's fault.

He poured the rest of the whiskey over the scattered cards on the floor (not much, actually) and went out again, already knowing that it was a bad idea.

He stopped a taxi.

"Baker Street," he said dryly to the driver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Hikikomori is a Japanese word that literally means "to isolate". It indicates people who decide to live alone in their homes, keeping social contact with other human beings to a minimum. Source: wikipedia
> 
> [2] Quote from 4x03


	3. 2. Frostbite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for a scene of violence (the only one of the story).

Sherlock looked up from the microscope and scribbled on a blocknotes.  
_**"Frostbites leave on the epidermis lesions similar to those of burn."**_   
The phone on the table remained silent.   
The day before, Mary had expressed doubts about being able to convince John to assume a new identity.   
"If it happens, call me: I'll talk to him," Sherlock had said.   
But he didn’t receive any call, therefore Mary succeeded in convincing John that it was the best solution to protect his family, and now he was busy packing and studying the details of his new identity.   
He and Mycroft wouldn’t know their new names, or where they would go to live: the woman had taken the blank passports and ID cards, and she would have chosen her new name, just like when she created the identity of Mary Morstan. So, even if someone had come to the Holmes brothers looking for clues about her whereabouts, they knew nothing, and the former Watson family would have been safe.   
Sherlock resumed writing his notes on frostbite.   
_**"However, while the reaction to a burn is immediate due to the pain, it takes much longer for a person to react to a frostbite."**_   
Mary had warned him: she wouldn’t wait for some other old enemy to come forward, she would act as quickly as possible.   
John would have disappeared from his life like this, in silence, at any moment now. Perhaps they wouldn’t even have had time to say goodbye.

 _ **"Because of this delay in the sympathetic nervous system response, frostbites can cause worse damage than burns."**_   
And just like a frostbite, the thought of losing John seemed increasingly painful as the hours passed.   
John was the most important person in his life, now and forever.

For John, Sherlock would have agreed to go to hell and back, and this was the reason why he had approved Mary's plan, because it was the best way to protect John from her enemies.  
_"To protect the man we both love."_   
Mary had been straightforward, looking him in the eye.   
She knew, she had always known, because it wasn’t the first time that she had provoked him with a joke like that. Sherlock remembered perfectly what she had said on her wedding day: _“Oh, Sherlock! Neither of us were the first, you know.”_

But she had never been jealous or angry about Sherlock’s feelings for her husband, because John had chosen her, and she was well aware of it.  
The phone continued to remain silent.   
_**"We will now go on to examine the most common causes of frostbites."**_   
He focussed on the article he was writing. He wanted to published it on his website and also on some scientific journal.   
In this way, wherever he was in the world, John could have read it.   
Of course, he couldn’t answer, to protect his new identity, and he wouldn’t even call himself John, but Sherlock liked the idea that, by throwing a message in a bottle, the bond between them wouldn’t be completely cut off.

Sherlock thought that he could also participate in some concerts as first violinist, or perform as a soloist: after all he was a better musician than many professional ones. [1]  
And maybe, as John brought Rosie to the kindergarten by car, in their new city, he would listen to his music...   
It was stupid and sentimental, but there was nothing left for him.   
  
The front door opened and someone climbed up the stairs, their steps heavy. Not Mrs. Hudson, then, nor a client, because they would ring the doorbell.   
John?   
His steps were uncertain and occasionally he stumbled.   
Was he drunk?   
But it was still morning.   
In that case, his deduction had been completely wrong: the conversation with Mary hadn’t gone well, it had been a disaster.   
Sherlock stood up, buttoning his jacket, ready to make John change his mind, for his good, to protect and make him happy, as he had promised at John’s wedding.   
That was really the only promise Sherlock would make in his life, and he couldn’t break it.   
John slammed the door open, and when he spotted Sherlock, he narrowed his eyes.   
"John, what are you doing here? You should be home packing. Surely Mary has explained to you that..."

The fist that hit him in the face left him dazed. He staggered back and leaned against the table so as not to fall.  
"John, what...?"   
"Shut up! I don’t want to hear a word from you anymore! You are done playing with my life."

His breath was acrid with alcohol.  
"John, I just want to help you."   
John punched him again, harder this time, and Sherlock hit the floor.   
"I told you to shut up! If I were in the position of asking for help, I would ask anyone but you!"   
Those words struck as hard as his fists, like blades of ice that planted deep down in his breastbone.   
After many months, the scar of the bullet under his heart was throbbing painfully again.   
"Why?”   
"Because you don’t care about me, this is just your umpteenth, brilliant plan. Well, now open your ears, because these are the last words you will hear from me: I am not a puppet, and you are not the one who maneuvers the strings, not anymore. I'm John Watson, I'll never be anyone else, and I will not go anywhere."   
"Even if you're drunk, you can’t not understand that it's for your own good."   
Sherlock tried to get back on his feet, but John tugged at his shirt, throwing him back to the floor.

"I will take care of my own good, I don’t need help, much less the help of a deranged psychopath like you. You ruined my life! I wish I never met you!"  
Sherlock tried to convince himself that it was alcohol talking, not John. Yet he seemed extremely lucid and rational in his rage, and that was the thing that hurt most: was this what John really thought of him, despite what Sherlock had done to protect him?   
"Don’t you think about Rosie? If you stay here she will be in danger."   
"Her real father will take care of it, or whoever Mary will be able to fool with her lies."   
Sherlock looked at him, distraught.   
"She doesn’t..? John... I had no idea..."   
"This is the trouble in living a life made of lies: in the end, you no longer distinguish them from the truth. And that's what you two are: lies, nothing else."   
John looked at him with such contempt that he took his breath away: he had never been looked at by such cold eyes, not even by Moriarty.   
"Indeed, why don’t you go away with her? You are so similar that you would be a perfect couple, and you would have fun together, ruining someone else's life."   
"This is not true!" Sherlock yelled. He knew it was wiser to shut up, because John's blind rage was only looking for a target, and he was there, but something inside him rebelled. He wasn’t like Mary, he couldn’t accept being compared to her.

This time John kicked him in the ribs, and made him curl up in pain. But what hurt more than anything else, was the gall that dripped from John's words.  
"Yes, you are the same! You started to ruin my life, pretending to be dead for two years as if it were a joke, and then she completed the job by inventing a family that never existed. And who said that she was perfect for me? You again! It's all your fault! You're not my friend, you've never been, you're not Sherlock Holmes, you're just a nameless lie, like her. Goodbye."   
In a last gesture of anger, John kicked him again and threw down everything that was on the table.   
Sherlock was hit by a shower of glass that forced him to cover his head.   
Then John left, slamming the door, and staggered down the stairs.   
A piece of paper stood for a moment on the edge of the table, then landed on the floor before Sherlock’s eyes.

_**"Frostbites leave on the epidermis lesions similar to those of burn."** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] In an orchestra, the first violinist (or concertmaster) is one of the most important elements, because they lead the other musicians, and perform the solo parts of the melodies.
> 
> I had nooo idea of what happened to the layout of this chapter or why it's so weird. I hope it's not too much troublesome to read.


	4. 3. Zero degrees

John called a worker and had the window pane repaired: not that he cared about it, actually, but he had decided to sell the house, and a broken glass made a bad impression.

The worker went in, looked at him, and asked no explanation of how the glass had broken; he worked quickly and silently, and John was grateful for this.

He contacted via email an estate agency and delegated the sale to them. He didn’t even set a minimum sale price: he just wanted to get rid of the house as soon as possible. The only condition that he posed was that he didn’t want to meet the potential buyers, the agency would have to handle the whole deal.

Mary claimed that other enemies from her past could come looking for her and, knowing what kind of people she dealt with, they could torture or kill the new landlords to obtain information about the previous owners. So, the less they knew, the better it was for them.

For the same reason, he didn’t bring Mary's clothes to a charity: he feared that a killer, seeing a woman wearing one of her clothes, could shoot and kill her, mistaking her for Mary. And John didn’t want to be responsible for such a tragic mistake, thank you very much.

He decided to burn everything.

He was very methodical: he opened cabinets and drawers in each room and took out all of Mary's personal belongings: clothes, shoes, photographs, even bathrobes and towels, piling them up in the middle of the living room.

As a soldier, he had lived surrounded by sexist jokes about women and their obsession of hoarding shoes and dresses, but Mary's pile of clothes was very small indeed, just like the one of a person who was always ready to pack and travel light, and for that, possessing many things was just a useless weight.

Mary had accused him of not having loved her enough, and perhaps it was true, his cheating was a evident proof of that, but she had been the first one not to believe in their relationship, not to believe that she would stop there and put away her suitcases on the bottom of the closet and not use them anymore.

He lit the fireplace, remembering how it had been that detail that made Mary decide to buy that house and not another one.

"I like the houses with a fireplace” she had said, “they are warmer."

But probably that was just another lie: the fireplace was convenient for burning evidence and documents, and even if that house had been warm in the past, now it was as cold as ice.

John began to systematically throw her clothes into the flames, one by one, starting with the wedding dress, moving them with the poker to make room for the new ones.

When the fireplace was full of ashes, he waited for it to cool, shoveled, locked it in a garbage bag and brought it to the dumpster, then started again; finally, after the clothes, he started with the photo albums, tearing one page at a time.

He believed it would be a painful task, instead it was only monotonous and boring.

In one of the older albums, Mary had collected some of his personal photographs: at Harry’s birthday, during a reunion with her fellow soldiers, and during a pub night with Mike and Greg.

And also all of his photographs with Sherlock.

For the first time, John's hands hesitated.

After being in Baker Street, John had returned home and had fallen asleep on the couch, then he had woken up with a bloody hangover, had cleaned up and started to empty the cabinets, but he had carefully avoided to think of Sherlock.

He didn’t remember exactly what he had told him, nor what he had done, his brain was sending him only snippets and brief memories, but his knuckles were aching, and John knew he had beaten him, but he tried to justify himself.

"It's his fault, every disgrace that happened in my life is only his fault!" He exclaimed in the empty room. His voice, however, no longer carried sign of anger, and didn’t even sound so convinced anymore.

The truth was that, once Mary had disappeared, Sherlock had become the perfect scapegoat for John’s mind, distraught and angered by alcohol.

He closed the album and threw it into the fireplace, but because of the intense heat, the pages lifted and opened, revealing smiling faces becoming twisted and grotesque before the fire erased them forever.

Whenever John's life had shattered in pieces and he had tried to rebuild it, Sherlock had come to mess with it again, pulling the rug under his feet.

Damn, he had the right to hate him for that, and to be furious with him.

The photo album burned to a crisp in the flames and vanished.

Or maybe he was just looking for a pathetic excuse to justify himself and hold off the guilt for beating him, but he had the terrible feeling that what he had done at Baker Street had destroyed his relationship with Sherlock forever. Their friendship no longer existed, vanished like that album.

In some ways, it made him feel colder than the idea of a daughter who wasn’t his.

There was nothing left to burn in the house, the fireplace had worked continuously for hours and the temperature in the room had gone up a lot, but for John, who was looking at the last sign of his friendship with Sherlock reduced to ashes, it was still icy cold.

The real estate agency called him: there was already a young family interested in buying the house, and wanted to go see it in the afternoon.

It wasn’t surprising: the price was low for such a big house, the ideal situation for those who wanted to build and enlarge their family.

"I wish you to have more luck than I had,” John murmured, “also because it's hard to have less than what I've had."

He quickly packed his bags and moved to a small pension not far from the clinic where he worked. The building was dated and over the years hadn’t undergone major renovations, despite being decent. A bit like Baker Street.

The owner was a petite woman who had passed her seventies, and who reminded him of Mrs. Hudson. She was kind and polite, and offered him what she claimed it was the best room in the pension.

"At first sight you wouldn’t say that, because the window looks out onto the back alley and not onto the main road, but it's above the furnace room, and therefore in winter it's the warmest room."

John accepted and paid a month's rent in advance.

He unpacked his suitcase, put the phone in charge and sat down on the bed.

No, that room didn’t look like Baker Street at all, it was anonymous, aseptic and lacking in personality.

And despite the reassurances of the owner, for John the temperature was still at zero degrees.


	5. 4. Shivers

The fingers that moved fast on the computer keyboard were the only sound that could be heard on Baker Street.

**_"Shivers are involuntary contractions of extensive muscle groups, to increase the production of heat by exploiting the muscle activity, in order to maintain a constant body temperature and prevent hypothermia."_ **

In the end, Sherlock had decided to write his article on frostbite: it was scientifically rigorous, accurate, it explained in detail the causes and consequences of frostbites, and it was better than many university textbooks. It was a pity to delete it.

The only difference, compared to the day before, was that Sherlock was sure that John would never read it.

John wouldn’t be closer to anything related to him.

Mycroft hadn’t contacted him, but by now he had already seen that Mary and Rosie had disappeared from the radars, while John had remained there in London and wasn’t moving seas and mountains to find his daughter, so he had deduced everything, but for once he had decided not to intrude.

Sherlock was silently grateful to him; he couldn’t face his brother and his sarcasm now.

After many hours spent writing on the computer, he decided to take a break to make tea, hoping it would warm him up.

Curiously, writing about freezing made him feel cold and his arms were covered in goosebumps. He told himself that it was only self-suggestion, and the excuse worked well enough, if he didn’t thought too deeply about it.

He pushed back his chair and covered his ribs with his right hand, a grimace of pain painted on his face.

This time John hadn’t restrained himself, it hadn’t been like when he had punched him in the alley behind Irene Adler's house.

The reason was simple: John no longer considered him a friend.

John hated him and had been adamant about it.

From a merely physical point of view, John's blows hadn’t caused him permanent damage, he had suffered much worse in Serbia; in fact he hadn’t gone to the hospital, merely taking some paracetamol to sleep better.

From a psychological point of view, instead...

A shiver ran through him and the lid of the tea jar fell to the floor.

Sherlock stared at it with hatred and decided to leave it there: bending down was out of the question at the moment.

He never thought that John could kick him while he was on the floor, already in pain. He wondered if the anger had dimmed the doctor in him, or if it had revealed John’s true feelings.

He sat down with a bit of effort, put his cup of tea on the table, but his hand shook, making it spill a little.

He resumed writing.

**_"Shivers can also be triggered as a reaction to a strong trauma or a state of shock."_ **

He smacked his lips, annoyed, and canceled what he had written: it was true, but it wasn’t relevant to his scientific article.

He took a sip of tea, but pushed the cup away from his face with a grimace of disgust: distracted, he had left the teabag too long in the hot water, and now there was only the bitter and persistent taste of the tannins. It was disgusting, but it suited to his current state of mind.

Because, after the shock and pain, followed by the realization that no, this time John wouldn’t have forgiven him, Sherlock also felt a surge of anger for the accusations that John had yelled at him.

He wasn’t like Mary, he wasn’t a fake.

John had seen him at his best and, above all, at his worst, he had seen him happy, angry, humiliated, defeated, drugged, scared, vulnerable, he had seen the most hidden and authentic part of him. 

Sherlock had trusted John, had opened up and shown his true self to John.

Only to him.

Not even Mycroft or his parents had seen him so naked.

And John had trampled on it, by comparing him to a nameless woman, to a cold murderer who shot an unarmed man, a murderer Sherlock had protected only for John's happiness.

He didn’t deserve those words, after all he had done for John, the most important person in his life, his only friend.

He shivered again.

**_"An excess of cortisol and adrenaline in the circulatory system can provoke shivers of anger."_ **

That was true too, but again not relevant for his article.

He tapped rhythmically his finger on the backspace key until the whole sentence was deleted.

He had to concentrate, or he wouldn’t have finished in time for the next issue of the scientific journal.

As for the rest, there was nothing left to do.

He could only hope that one day the cold left by John in his life would dissipate, that the shivers would cease, and that he would forget what had happened in that same room.

_ "You're not Sherlock Holmes, you're just a nameless lie." _

At that moment, however, it wasn’t happening. On the contrary, it seemed to him that he couldn’t stop shaking, because the echo of John's cruel words still lingered in the air.

Stoically, he continued to write.

**_"There is one thing that the body ignores: the shivers induced by muscular contractions produce a very small amount of heat, which is not able to counteract the cold, nor to effectively protect the organs. Exposed to low temperatures for a long period of time, the human body can do nothing but freeze and succumb."_ **

This time he didn’t delete the sentence.


	6. 5. Bitter cold

_ "What are you planning to do at Christmas?" _

John had heard that question every December of his life, as punctual as the tax collector.

In the past, John had welcomed it with indulgence, and it had never bothered him. After all, it was perfectly normal, Christmas was a time of celebration for everyone: the families gathered, people called their friends who didn’t hear in a long time, they went looking for gifts to show friends and family that they loved them; even the most bitchy persons committed themselves to behave in a civilized manner.

And although that question was sometimes a bit exasperating and gave him anxiety, because John procrastinated and then did everything at the last moment, it was nice to think about Christmas coming.

Although his family was a train wreck and they weren’t never too close, there had been many Christmases that John remembered with pleasure: when their parents had given him his first bicycle, when he and Harriet helped his mother to bake cakes for the party, when he had given his first kiss to a girl under the mistletoe hanging on the porch, after having taken her home.

Even in Afghanistan he and his comrades had always found a way to celebrate Christmas: the cooks tried to cook something different from the usual, someone had garlands sent from home to decorate the barracks. Once some soldiers had even managed to recover a small plastic fir tree from the Kabul market to be used as a Christmas tree. Despite the difficulties and being constantly surrounded by danger, at Christmas they found reasons to smile.

_ "What are you planning to do at Christmas?" _

It was undeniable, that question had always warmed his heart, because it evoked happy moments of his life.

This until the year before.

Last Christmas had brought the sad attempt at reconciliation with Mary and had culminated in a murder. The murder of a bastard, of course, but still not much in keeping with the spirit of the festivity.

And this year, Christmas wouldn’t brought anything, it would be just a day like the others, nothing to celebrate, no wife to kiss on the check in the morning, no daughter to give to yet another toy, no Sherlock to invite to a party.

The magic of Christmas no longer existed, and not even thinking of past ones aroused a small amount of nostalgia in him. It made no sense to look forward to a festivity, if there was no reason to celebrate and no one to share the joy with.

He would never have imagined ending up like this.

He signed up to be available in the clinic that day, and his boss said nothing. He had noticed that all of his family's photographs had disappeared from his room, and the wallpaper of his computer desktop was no longer the photo of his marriage, but an anonymous tropical beach.

John hadn’t explained what happened to him and his boss hadn’t asked about it, but not all of his colleagues were so insightful, and insisted to know his plans for Christmas Day.

_ "What are you planning to do at Christmas?" _

John hesitated, made excuses, said that he hadn’t yet thought about it, answered with a laconic "I don’t know", but the truth was that now that question caused him only a bitter cold inside his heart, a heart that no longer seemed able to warm up.


	7. 6. Bleak

The hostess of the pension did her best to decorate the building for the holiday season, but John had rarely seen anything more shabby.

A shriveled fir tree, that had already begun to lose its needles, stood in the hallway, decorated with little faded-off plastic ornaments, a row of sad, little yellow fairy lights snaked around the door and a window, while dry and dusty garlands had been hung at the doors of the occupied rooms.

But the smell of old was always the same, the carpet was worn, the tapestry was detaching from the corners, the walls needed a repainting, and the Christmas decorations couldn’t embellish the building, at all.

After work, John sat on the bed and looked around: he was at the same point of this life as when he had come back from Afghanistan. Alone, without perspectives, surrounded by nothingness. It scared him.

He ran a hand over his face and the stubble scratched his palm: he had to shave and maybe put the clothes scattered everywhere in the closet, because there was enough desolation in that place.

His phone was silent from the day he had been in Baker Street. Sherlock hadn’t tried to contact him and John wasn’t surprised: he had been more than clear in telling him that he didn’t want to see or hear him anymore, and it seemed that Sherlock was listening to him this time.

On the other hand, why would Sherlock want to approach again someone who had kicked and punched him?

The more days passed, the more John realized that he was the one who was supposed to pick up the phone, call him and apologize.

His anger was justified, because no one had the right to maneuver his life, and he was tired of people scheming behind his back, but nothing, neither fury nor alcohol, could justify the violence of his assault against Sherlock.

A fist, perhaps, or an equal fistfight would have been still understandable, but hitting a man on the ground, who didn’t even try to defend himself, was just wrong and he had no justifications.

However, it wasn’t only shame and guilt that restrained him from calling, it was also the thought that he was probably right: Sherlock didn’t care about him.

Otherwise he would have made an attempt to call him, right?

The thought left him shocked.

As long as he had been his loyal little dog, who followed him to the crime scene and covered him with praises, Sherlock had kept John by his side, but when the game had risen, John had been left behind, helpless spectator of his fake suicide before, and the murder of Magnussen then, without ever being able to intervene, do something or simply speak his mind, as if he were a burden, or a child to look after, because he couldn’t do anything alone.

It was easier to let that relationship die, if he thought and convinced himself that Sherlock had never considered him a friend, just a convenient helper. So he could go on with his life.

There was only one flaw in his reasoning: now John had his life in his hands, as he had screamed he wanted. He no longer had a wife, no family to be responsible for, he was no longer the blogger of the only consulting detective in the world, and he wasn’t dealing anymore with his archenemies and his world made of secrets and lies, he was free to do what he wanted, to go wherever he wanted, without telling anyone. Complete and total freedom.

And he had not the faintest idea of what to do with his life. 

There was only a bleak landscape around him.

A very big flaw, to be honest.

He looked at his phone, and for a moment he was tempted to unlock it and make that call, instead he put it back in the desk drawer, next to his gun.

He took a too long look at the firearm, before closing the drawer.

Mrs. Hudson was very worried for Sherlock.

She was at home when he and John had a fight. It wasn’t the first time that it happened and she hadn’t been alarmed until she heard the sound of broken glass and the front door slamming violently.

John was furious, as he had been the day he found out that Sherlock was alive and had lied to him for two years.

She ran up the stairs, horrified at the sight of Sherlock curled up on the floor, his face rapidly swelling where John had hit him. 

She couldn’t get a word out of Sherlock, and she didn’t know what made John so angry.

She waited a few days, cultivating the faint hope that they could make peace, but when it hadn’t happened, she had gone to John's house to understand what had happened, only to find that he no longer lived there.

A neighbor, who couldn’t wait to tell a succulent story of gossip to someone, told her that the doctor had been left "all alone", after his wife and daughter suddenly left some days before, not to be seen anymore.

A part of her wasn’t surprised: she had never liked Mary, she had always found something artificial and fake in her attitudes, even before discovering the truth about her.

Honestly, knowing that she was far and away from the life of "her" boys was a relief.

The only one, at the moment.

Since the day of the fight, Sherlock acted as if nothing had happened, but Mrs. Hudson noticed that he was more and more gloomy, like when he was about to fall into one of his dark mood. She pondered whether to call Mycroft for help, but probably the intervention of his older brother would have just made Sherlock escape in one of his secret hideaways scattered around London.

So far, she had only checked the flat for drugs when his tenant was out.

Sherlock didn’t underestimate her, but he didn’t even think she was a genius. Anyway Martha Hudson had been the wife of a well-known drug dealer and she knew the possible hiding places for drugs far better than Sherlock thought.

At home there was no trace of drugs, however, but the situation remained troubling.

Sherlock left Regent's Park, kicking off the last dry leaves the street-sweepers hadn’t collected.

Usually, walking in the large park near his house, helped him and calmed his nerves when he was tense, but now the park seemed only a bleak space full of dead trees without any charm.

In addition, the people around him did nothing but talk about Christmas coming, and this irritated him deeply.

He wanted to call John and tell him that he was wrong, that he wasn’t the fake, but all the other people surrounding him were, because they pretended to be excited for a stupid festivity, they wished Merry Christmas mechanically to anyone, without really thinking about it, they said they couldn’t wait to sit down at a table with relatives they hadn’t seen for a long time, when they actually hated every single person sitting at that table and wanted to see them dead.

His phone was silent from the day John had beaten him.

On the first day he had almost hoped that, after the hangover, John would call him, to tell him he was wrong, that Mary's choices weren’t his fault, and that Sherlock wasn’t a fiction.

But that hope died quickly: the friendship with John had vanished forever, leaving behind a desolate void in his heart, which Sherlock had filled with a dull rage.

_ "You're not Sherlock Holmes." _

Those words were flowing in his blood like a poison.

John no longer believed in him, then Sherlock could stop behaving like Sherlock Holmes. Why should he put such an herculean effort to be himself? Nobody cared who he really was.

_ "The fragility of the genius: it is lost without an audience." _

The words he himself pronounced time ago resurfaced mockingly from his memory.

He returned to Baker Street and checked the messages left on his site, then the newspapers of the last week: it had been a long time since he had a decent case and now he desperately needed it.

No, it wasn’t true: he didn’t need a good case, it had just to be something able to calm the agitation he felt inside.

He was aware of the old demons trying to resurface and take control of him, but he wouldn’t resort to drugs this time, because he didn’t want to face the ordeal of rehabilitation again.

And also because, within himself, he was aware that a new overdose now would have been his last one.

He needed an alternative.

He was furious with John for this reason, too and attributed to him and his cruel words the craving for cocaine that burned in his blood.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Hudson went up, bringing him lunch.

"Found a good murder to cheer you up, dear?" She asked, passing behind him.

"No, but I just discovered a network of potential human organ traffickers."

An address of the Chiltern Hills, in Buckinghamshire, was quickly scribbled on a block notes.

"Heaven, what a terrifying thing. Be careful,” she patted his shoulder, “those are very dangerous people."

Sherlock burst out an angry laugh that made her start.

"Oh, Sherlock Holmes would surely be careful: he would put on a disguise, follow them for days, and silently deduce their lives, gathering evidence under their noses, and they wouldn’t notice anything, but I'm not Sherlock Holmes!” Sherlock jumped up, raising his voice, “and this is just a waste of time!"

"Dear...?" Mrs. Hudson asked, tilting her head, surprised by his reaction.

"I’ll just go to their den, threaten them with a gun and make them confess everything," cried Sherlock, more and more agitated, “and then drag them to the police with my bare hands!"

He didn’t care about anything anymore, inside him there was only a bleak landscape.

"It seems a shoddy method," objected Mrs. Hudson, more and more concerned by Sherlock’s behaviour.

Sherlock grabbed the blade on the mantelpiece and stuck it in the backrest of John's chair.

"Sherlock! What are you doing?"

Sherlock destroyed the old pillow with the English flag, spreading the stuffing everywhere.

"That's exactly what I'll do. Fineness is useless! Using the brain is useless! Sherlock Holmes' method is useless. And, after all, I'm not Sherlock Holmes!"

He threw the pillow to the floor and left the apartment, under the terrified gaze of his landlady.


	8. 7. Hibernate

It began to snow as soon as Sherlock got into the car.

And it wasn’t that sleet mixed with rain that sometimes fell on London, just for the sake of exacerbating the traffic, it was a real snowfall, thick and intense, with large white flakes that covered the streets.

The radio immediately began to spread catastrophic news, inviting people to stay at home, if they haven’t any urgent business.

Sherlock ignored the warning and took the highway towards the Chiltern Hills, determined to find and deal with organ traffickers on his own, just as he told to Mrs. Hudson.

He wondered what John would have thought, if he had read in the newspaper about the case, if he really had seen Sherlock Holmes not acting like Sherlock Holmes. Would John like the new version of Sherlock? Would it have been satisfactory for him?

His hands clenched the steering wheel until the leather creaked, and his right foot pressed the accelerator too deep, given the conditions of the road.

The truth was that he was tired of everything.

He was tired of feeling like that, restless, moody, angry, without a target to vent his frustration; and he was tired of John's words of hatred, that kept echoing in his head and that he couldn’t erase, despite having tried.

The feelings he felt for John were so strong that he couldn’t let them go, even after the last, painful confrontation.

He left the highway, and took a road that ran through the countryside, an uninterrupted succession of rolling hills and valleys, dotted here and there by a sheepfold or a cottage. There was no traffic, no or other vehicles on the road, and now the landscape was covered in a thick, uniform, silent blanket of snow.

Sherlock allowed himself to be distracted for a moment from the driving, observing the countryside behind the windscreen.

It would have been great, he thought, to be able to hibernate like the grass under the snow, to forget everything and to wake up only when things have changed.

That was, probably never in his case.

Then, the place the most suited to him was the perennial ice of the Arctic, where he could be hibernated forever.

He returned his full attention to the road: better not to be distracted, because now there was a real snowstorm falling from the sky.

Someone knocked insistently at his door.

John came out of the bathroom, opened the door, and found Mrs Hudson in front of him, visibly agitated.

"How did you find me?"

"I asked the clinic where you work. John, listen to me..."

"I'm sorry,” he replied, trying to close the door. “I'm busy."

There could be only one reason for her presence there, and that reason was someone that John didn’t want to think about anymore: Sherlock.

He had decided that the chapter of his life was closed forever.

However, the woman didn’t accept to be dismissed so hastily, and opposed a surprising resistance to the closing of the door.

"It’s about Sherlock."

"I know, and that's why I have other things to do."

"It’s like Sherlock is gone mad: he mumbled that he is no longer Sherlock Holmes, then he ran away. He's going in the lair of some organ traffickers, unarmed."

"I don’t care: if he’s taking drugs and has lost his mind..."

"He’s not taking drugs, I’m monitoring him, and I know that for sure."

If the widow of a drug dealer said so, it had to be true, but John shrugged and pushed the door again.

"Whatever. It’s not my business."

"John," the woman insisted, not at all intimidated by his abrupt reaction. "You need to see him. You need to help him! I don’t care why you fought and you beat him. Yes,” she added, in front of his raised eyebrow, “despite my age, my hearing is still good."

"Then you understand that I can’t..."

"And I also know you're angry because Mary left with Rosie."

"Who did tell you?"

"Your nosy ex-neighbour. What are you doing, John? Are you blaming him? Don’t be absurd, Sherlock made a lot of mistakes, but this is not his fault. You must find him, before he gets into trouble. He needs you!"

"Somebody else. Not me, not now."

"Now you just listen to me for once in your stupid life!” Mrs. Hudson blurted, “I know that you are angry about everything that happened to you, I know your heart is broken, but you can’t blame him for Mary's decisions. And if you lose Sherlock too, who will you have then?"

"I don’t…"

"Because I tell you something, John Watson. You will not have me!"

She pressed a piece of paper and the key of her car on his left palm, and left.

John closed the door and stared at the address of a place in the Buckinghamshire for a long time, crumpled and threw it into the trash can, then looked out the window: the snowfall was very intense now, it wasn’t the ideal weather for traveling.

He retrieved the note from the trash can, sat down at the desk, and leaned his head on his folded arms: he didn’t know what to do, but he was worried, he couldn’t deny it.

A part of him wanted to hibernate under the snow and forget everything: his ex-wife, the fight with Sherlock, the shameful beating, but another part of him knew that it would never happen, that he would never forget. Sherlock had been a too important part of his life to be forgotten or ignored.

_ “And if you lose Sherlock too, who will you have then?" _

Nobody, he already knew that.

He took the key of Mrs. Hudson's car in her fist and and swung them between his fingers.

He wouldn’t run to Sherlock just because he was afraid of feeling alone, he needed another reason.

He bit his lips in frustration and raised his head to the ceiling, moaning like a wounded animal: why was everything so painful and difficult?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Part of the dialogue between John and Mrs. Hudson is taken from that of The Lying Detective.


	9. 8. Christmas magic (1)

He would have to mark in red that day on the calendar: it didn’t happen often that Sherlock Holmes admitted he did something dumb.

Because traveling to the countryside under the most wild snowfall of the last forty years hadn’t been a good idea.

The light of the day was already gone, while the snowflakes, falling incessantly, made it difficult to see, and the road was extremely slippery. By now it was clear to him that not only he wouldn’t reach the lair of organ traffickers before evening, but even reaching the nearest village wouldn’t be easy.

"You can safely say it was the most stupid and senseless idea you ever had, because it's the truth."

A man had been talking, sitting in the passenger seat.

Until a second ago there was nobody, and now there was a man next to him.

A man wrapped in a sort of strange blue ritual vest, with a showy amulet around his neck, whose somatic features were identical to his, except for the goatee and the straight hair sprinkled with gray on the temples.

Sherlock wondered if he had entered his Mind Palace without realizing it, but some details didn’t fit: usually, in his Palace he saw himself as a Victorian detective, he had never imagined himself as a sort of sorcerer, he had no reason to to do it.

He bit his lips and closed his eyes for a moment: that wasn’t the most important point now. He couldn’t take refuge in his mind while he was driving on a snowy road: he could end up off the road or have an accident.

However, when he opened his eyes, the other man was still sitting in his seat, looking at him with folded arms and an absolutely seraphic face, as if his presence there was completely normal.

"Yes, it would be great if you could watch the road: in the past I had a car accident and I don’t want to repeat the experience," he said calmly. "My husband would never stop complaining."

Even the voice of that man was the same as his, only the accent was different. American, probably from Nebraska.

"Exactly, even though I hoped I'd lost that terrible accent over the years," he said, as if he'd read his mind. "You should still look at the road, and not at me."

"That's what I'm trying to do. Get out!"

It was the first time he was stuck in his mind against his own will and couldn’t get out of it: the feeling of impotence he was experiencing was terrifying.

The man put a gloved hand on the steering wheel, to gently correct the car's trajectory.

"Oh, maybe you start figuring it out."

"Figuring what?"

"We will get there. However, you are not in your Mind Palace."

"What? Of course I'm stuck in my mind: in the real world people don’t appear out of nowhere and don’t go around dressed like you."

"Not in this reality, you’re right about it, but I can travel through the multiverse. Do you want to see?"

"No, I just want you to disappear."

"I expected an answer like that. But see, Sherlock, you’re not in charge of decisions this time."

The man snapped his fingers and Sherlock was catapulted from the seat of his car into the cosmic space, surrounded by dazzling colours spheres, clouds of swirling gas and whole galaxies that clashed with each other.

_ “Hallucinations from psychotropic substances,” _ was the first explanation that came to his mind.

Yet he hadn’t taken LSD or mescaline: he had tried psychedelics in his youth, but he had discarded them, because they hadn’t the desired effects on his mind. They only produced hallucinations and nightmares, and he hated it, because he had no control over them.

He frantically tried to remember if he had swallowed or had accidentally come in contact with alkaloids, but he didn’t have. A few weeks earlier he had conducted an experiment on the muscimol using an amanita muscaria, but he had cleaned and sanitized every instrument he used.

He couldn’t find an explanation for that terrible hallucinogenic trip.

He waved his legs and arms as if he were swimming, to move in the air, but as soon as he thought he could coordinate his limbs and movements, the scenery changed again and he found himself reeling on a wooden floor, like a fish pulled ashore.

The other version of himself was standing in front of him, scratching his goatee with a perplexed expression.

"Hm, the multiverse tour was to convince you that you're not imagining anything, but I hadn’t considered your past with drugs. Bad habit, by the way, and extremely damaging to the brain you care so much about."

Sherlock stood up and watched the house around him: a luxurious but not tacky building, with bookcases laden with old books, polished parquet, and thick Persian rugs; beyond the art nouveau style colorful windows, yellow taxis darted across the street, and the chatter of the passers-by, with their unmistakable accent, came to them: it was New York.

That place had no meaning for him, those objects weren’t familiar to him in any way, they weren’t part of his memories or his experiences, then they had no reason to be in his Mind Palace.

So his alter ego was right: he wasn’t in his mind, it was true.

He looked back at him, studying him carefully: he was a doctor, even if he didn’t exercise anymore, and suffered of intermittent tremors on his hands.

Just like John.

"Yes, I find it a bizarre coincidence too, but given the number of existing parallel universes, it can happen,” said the man. “Everett was amazed by it, anyway."

"Who are you? And how do you read my mind?"

"My name is Stephen Strange, I am the Sorcerer Supreme and Master of the Mystic Arts, and no, I don’t read your mind,” he said, bringing his hands behind his back. “I deduce, exactly like you do: the universes are very different between them, but people always maintain some characteristic traits. Anyway, that's not why we're here."

"Then why?" Sherlock asked. He sat down on an empty chair, but Strange snapped his fingers again, and carried them to another room in the building, where there were no chairs, and Sherlock found himself slamming his butt painfully on the floor.

"Are you having fun?" He asked furiously, standing up and advancing menacingly toward him: sorcerer or not, he began to get tired of those tricks.

Strange changed the scenery again, and Sherlock found himself at the end of a corridor that seemed to stretch indefinitely.

"Believe me Sherlock, with a husband like mine, I have better ways to pass the time: I do this because of your incredible stupidity."

"I don’t know you and I didn’t do anything to you!" Sherlock tried to reach him again, but Strange took him to the basement of the building and sent him slam into a stone wall.

"No, not to me."

"Just

tell

me

what

the

hell

you

want

and

stop

doing

that!" screamed Sherlock, frustrated and exasperated, because at every word, Strange raised an eyebrow or moved a finger, and they were in a different room of that building that seemed endless.

He was like a puppet that the sorcerer moved at his whim, and he had rarely felt so powerless.

"You can scream as much as you want, it's useless."

"Very well, then." Sherlock decided to change strategy, then: he sat on the floor cross-legged, and stopped talking, staring at him with hostility. He would ignore the sorcerer until he was tired of playing.

"This is useless, too," Strange warned. "As I told you, it’s not you who decides how this visit takes place."

Then, through yet another spell, he carried Sherlock into a perfectly neat corn field that stretched as far as the eye could see; behind them there were a small house, a barn, and nothing else. The only sound that was heard was the rustling of the wind among the ripe corn cobs, but there were no cicadas chirping in that field, nor birds flying in the sky.

"Would you like to live here?" Asked Strange.

Sherlock was still silent, but the answer was obviously negative: there was nothing to do in that place, if not look at the corn. He wouldn’t have lived there even if they had covered him with gold.

"Anyway," Strange said, as he drew a circle of golden light in the air, beyond which was the New York building, “I decided that from now on this is your home and your new job: you will grow corn until the end of your days. Goodbye."

That said, he drew back and the portal disappeared, before Sherlock had time to jump to his feet and stop him.

"Are you kidding me? Come back!" He shouted, but his voice dispersed in the wind, as Strange was gone. 

What the hell had he done to be targeted by a psychopathic sorcerer? He couldn’t understand what it was happening to him.

Dazed, he went into the house and then into the barn, looking for a computer, a telephone, or any communication tool, but found nothing. There wasn’t even electric light or running water, just a small well with a pulley.

"It's a madness," he murmured, and he didn’t intend to take part in it. He took off his coat, scarf, and jacket and walked along the field, slapping the plants angrily along his path.

He was sure that sooner or later he would find a road, another farm, or some sign of civilization, but he walked for hours without meeting a living soul, there was only corn, corn everywhere he looked. However, he didn’t give up and continued to walk under the sun, with the sweat that ran down his back, despite the thirst, the feet that hurt, and even the panic of being immersed in a maze with no apparent way out.

When the legs no longer held him he lay down on the ground to catch his breath, then, as soon as he had recovered a minimum of strength, he grabbed the nearest corn plant and eradicate it, using it like a club to destroy the surrounding ones: he would never have bent to Strange’s whims.

"I know you can see me,” he screamed, “look how much I care about your decision!"

A moment later he was back in Strange's living room; the sorcerer was seated in front of a large round window, and looked at him with folded hands under his chin.

"Had it been up to me, I would have kept you there for a very long time, but those poor corn plants didn’t deserve your rage."

"Can I know what I did to you?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Then why…?"

"Why did I treat you like a puppet? To make you understand how terrible it is not to be in charge of your life. Now maybe you can understand how John felt, when he was told he would have to throw away his life and start a new one."

Sherlock stiffened: "Was it John who asked you to do this?"

Strange shook his head: "No, it was my initiative... well, mine and my husband's. Actually, the laws that govern the multiverse would prevent me from intervening, but your colossal imbecility is too painful to bear, we had to do something."

"But I just wanted to keep him safe from dangers, why no one understand it?" Sherlock burst out.

"I wanted to do the same thing with you,” Strange said, “in that cornfield no one would ever hurt you: no cases, no killers or nemeses to fight, no smog, no source of stress, nor even a car that could hit you."

"It's not up to you to decide how I live my life, or if I can deal with dangers."

"Exactly," the sorcerer murmured in a calm voice.

Sherlock swallowed and looked down, as if struck by an intuition: it had been frustrating to be tossed by Strange from a place to another, and then abandoned in the middle of nowhere. Did John feel that way, every time he had done something behind his back without asking him?

"It's not pleasant, is it?" Strange urged.

"No," Sherlock whispered.

"Of course, this doesn’t justify John for having raised his hands on you: in fact he too is receiving a lesson."

Sherlock reached the sorcerer in two steps, and grabbed him by the vest.

"What did you do to John?"

"Do you still care? Didn’t you tell yourself that you hate him, and want to forget him?"

Sherlock slightly loosened his grip: he was still angry at John, but now he understood his feelings and the reason of his rage. But hate? John was the most important person in his life, the only one for whom he had ever felt deep and sincere feelings, he could never hate him.

"I will always care about John," Sherlock admitted with a bitter smile, "even if he doesn’t care about me anymore. What are you doing to him?"

"Nothing harmful," Strange assured him. "Something similar to what happened to you."

Sherlock dropped his arms at his sides: "But in the end, what is it for? To make us take a bath of humility? By now..."

"You will understand this too. Both of you will understand it, I hope," said Strange, adjusting his vest. "Now I'll take you back to where you were."

"And then?"

"And then, just one piece of advice: when it happens, take your hands off the steering wheel."

"No, wait: what is going to happen?"

But Strange had already snapped his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No corn cob has been harmed during the writing of this chapter :)


	10. 9. Christmas magic (2)

John was still looking at Mrs. Hudson's car key, when a voice behind him made him start.

"If you look at it a little longer, you will end up consuming it. How about using it instead?"

John turned abruptly, finding himself in front of a man who had his own face, wearing a light gray suit, and a large and showy red cloak over his shoulders, in a truly ill-assorted attire.

Even before wondering if he was awake, if he was dreaming, or if someone had drugged him, John's hand ran to the desk drawer where he kept the gun, but he found it empty.

"Were you looking for this?" Asked his alter ego.

The cloak, that apparently moved on its own, waved his gun, clutched in a corner.

"How the hell did you do it?"

"Oh no, I didn’t do anything: magic is his field,” the man pointed to the cloak with his thumb, “not mine."

John collapsed heavily on the desk: it was a heart attack, or a brain tumor, there was no other explanation for that hallucination. Would he die like this? In a shabby, cheap pension, alone like a stray dog? How many days would have passed before anyone wondered where he was?

"You are fine,” the other man reassured him. “You're an idiot and also an asshole, but there’s nothing wrong with your health."

At these words, John jumped up, because hallucination or not, he wouldn’t be insulted by anyone, and launched himself against the other man, but his alter ego dodged him with astonishing ease, and made him fall with a perfect military technique, blocking him on the floor with one knee on his back.

"Don’t even try it, I can foresee your moves, and I'm much more trained than you."

His arm, twisted on his back, hurt like hell, and the dusty carpet made his eyes water: it was all too real to be a hallucination, there really was a man with a magic cloak that appeared out of nowhere.

"Who the hell are you and what do you want from me?" John shouted.

"My name is Everett Ross, and I just want to take you for a ride along the boulevard of memories."

"Fuck you, I don’t go anywhere," John growled.

"Are you always so rancorous? Well, then it doesn’t surprise me that you ended up here."

Ross let him go, and John stood up, walking away a few steps and looking at him with hostility.

"You don’t know anything about me!"

"I have seen too much of your life, and I would have gladly done without this visit, trust me, but your stupidity had to be contained. I just hope that Sherlock is not being that unpleasant with Stephen. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t appreciate people who mistreat my husband."

"Sherlock? Is this madness about him? Of course it is,” John snorted, spreading his arms, “It’s always about to him."

"No," Ross replied, and his look became sharp and severe, “this is about the both of you."

"There isn’t a us anymore," John hissed.

"Yeah,” Everett swirled around, looking at the room, “And it's just beautiful, isn’t it?" He asked, his voice dripping sarcasm, arms crossed on his chest.

John inhaled deeply, grimacing, but he had no weapons to contradict that man, and the bleakness surrounding him spoke for itself.

"Why are you here?"

"There are things about Sherlock you don’t know, and things you've refused to see."

"It’s part of the past!” John snapped, “Knowing it wouldn’t change anything."

"Or maybe yes: you complain because everyone keeps you in the dark and maneuvers you, but do you really want to know the truth, or do you prefer to bask in the role of victim?” Ross stretched out an arm towards him, hand open, palm up. “Since you hate so much to be maneuvered, I will not force you to do anything, you will decide whether to come with me or not."

At those words the cloak stirred, but Ross caressed it, as if to tell that he knew what he was doing.

"Really? Would you just go away, after having appeared out of nowhere with your magic tricks?"

"Yes."

John pondered Ross’s words, but remained silent for too long, because Ross talked again to the cloak: "Let's go, it's clear that we're just wasting time here."

"Wait!” John stopped him. “Where would you take me?"

"To review some episodes of your past, and then wherever you want."

"Where are we, in A Christmas Carol?"

"If you prefer to see it like that, it's fine with me."

John looked back at the window: it hadn’t stop snowing. Indeed the flakes were falling ever more copiously now.

"In the end I'll take you to Sherlock, if it’s what you want, or back here: the choice is yours and yours alone, John, I swear."

After all, he had nothing to lose, and certainly nothing better to do.

"Al... alright. What should I do?"

"You can’t do anything, to be honest, just watch."

In a flash, John found himself in a long corridor: the smell of disinfectant told him it was a hospital. From a room to their right, excited voices came to him, and he knew them very well: they were Sherlock and himself, and he had just received the news of Mrs. Hudson's fake injury.

"It's the day when Sherlock jumped from the roof,” John exhaled in a low voice. “Can they see us?"

"No, we are like ghosts, and we can’t interact with them."

"Why did you bring me here? What do you want from me?"

"You'll understand it," Ross replied.

"You're a machine," the John Watson from the past shouted. "To hell with it! Stay here alone."

The John of the present winced: back then, he had been upset, that was true, but he had said deeply cruel words to Sherlock.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me, "Sherlock murmured.

"No, friends protect you."

John saw the other himself leave the building, furious, then looked at Sherlock.

"I always wondered why he answered that way."

"Maybe you'll find out now," Ross replied.

As soon as John was out, Sherlock called Mycroft.

"Did you find the hit men?"

"Lestrade's one has already been neutralized, those of Mrs. Hudson and John are under control."

"Moriarty must not understand that we know everything."

"I still don’t fully agree with your plan," continued Mycroft. "As unstable as he is, Moriarty could even order the hit man to shoot at you."

"The important thing is that he doesn’t shoot John," Sherlock answered, closing the call, then stood up to reach Moriarty on the roof.

"Strange words, for a machine," Ross remarked, following him.

Behind him, John said nothing.

They moved to the roof, where John could witness the confrontation between Sherlock and his nemesis.

After having come back to London, Sherlock told him what had happened on that roof and why he faked his death, but John had to admit that living the situation in first person was very different: Moriarty's insanity made him shiver, and he found himself sweating, as he pushed Sherlock in a corner.

"If you don’t jump, everyone will die," Moriarty threatened.

"John," Sherlock murmured.

Ross sat down on the low parapet and watched him.

"I don’t know him, but seen from here he doesn’t look like a person who doesn’t care about you."

Again, John said nothing, but knowing that the first person Sherlock had thought of was him, hit a chord inside him.

Ross stood up: "From here on, you know what happened, I'm not so cruel to make you relive that moment, let's go."

The cloak carried them to a square of what looked like a city in northern Europe. The shops were decorated with Christmas lights and the roofs of the houses were covered with snow.

"Where are we?" John asked, looking around.

"Oslo,” Ross answered, “on Christmas Eve a few years ago."

Sherlock sat on a bench and talked on the phone with Mycroft about his last mission.

"I finished. I'll be leaving tomorrow for St. Petersburg."

"Tomorrow is Christmas," said Mycroft. "Don’t you want to rest? You have been working uninterruptedly for two months."

"No, I don’t need it,” he replied dryly, closing the call. “The faster I finish, the faster I will return to London."

John believed that Sherlock had fun in those two years, playing the role of a secret agent, and travelling around the world, but as he sat on that bench, he seemed only a man with a deep longing for home.

A girl who was drinking champagne directly from the bottle, walked in front of Sherlock, stopped and smiled, hinting to pass him the bottle.

"Merry Christmas!" She exclaimed loudly.

Sherlock nodded, but declined the offer.

"Oh come on," insisted the woman. "Don’t you want to have some fun?"

Again, Sherlock shook his head and the girl shrugged.

"Your loss, all alone on Christmas Eve."

When she was gone, Sherlock murmured: "Alone is what I have, without him."

He looked different from usual, less confident and arrogant, almost melancholy.

"Without him? Is he referring to me?" John asked slowly, sitting next to Sherlock on the bench, even though he knew he couldn’t see him.

"What do you think, genius?" Ross snorted.

John clenched his fists: "I could have been by his side in those two years, if only he had given me the chance. It was my right to choose."

"You're right, but I think that, by now, Stephen will have made him understand his mistakes."

John jerked his head up: "Also Sherlock...?"

"Yes, he's living something similar to what you're experiencing. I think... with my husband you can never say. But don’t worry,” he added in front of John's alarmed face, “he would never hurt him: it’s not our purpose. And Sherlock had never acted to voluntarily harm you, even if it happened."

"Should I thank him?"

"No, but you could try to understand."

The cloak stirred and the scenery changed again: they were at the wedding of John and Mary, while he was talking to Sholto.

Ross looked at the John from the past and his former commander with a smirk on his face.

"I know that foolish smile: it's the same as I have when I haven’t seen my husband for a while."

John shrugged.

"We had a brief liaison during a mission abroad, but he was my superior officer and it was too complicated. When I returned to England for a leave, it ended. But of course I was happy to see him again."

Also Sherlock was watching at them from afar, in silence, with the same melancholy face he had on the square in Oslo.

That day, dazed by the celebration, John hadn’t noticed it, but now that he looked at him, he realized that Sherlock didn’t have the face of a friend happy for him.

"Why is he like that?" He asked, turning to Ross.

Almost in response to his question, at that moment Mary approached Sherlock, looked first at John and Sholto, then at him, and a smile stretched her lips. A smile that the John of the past would have called "glowing", but now, knowing Mary’s past life and who she was, John saw that smile for what it really was: subtly cruel.

It was obvious that Mary understood immediately what had happened between John and Sholto. Many things could be said about her, but not that she was stupid.

"Oh, Sherlock! Neither of us were the first, you know," the woman giggled suggestively.

John frowned: why did Mary compare her position to Sherlock? She was his wife and he was his best friend... he looked up at Ross and spread his arms.

"I don’t understand."

"People are right, you really should have it printed on a shirt," sighed Everett, barely restraining himself from insulting him. Stephen would have chided him.

The scene advanced rapidly to the evening, when Sherlock announced to the guests that Mary was pregnant, and for John it was surreal to review that moment: the first, instinctive reaction of the himself of the past wasn’t of joy, but of shock, while Mary must have already realized that Rosie might not be John’s daughter and already thought about keeping the secret.

"This farce should have ended in that moment,” the John of the present sighed: now it was clear to him that that relationship had no future.

Shortly after giving the announcement, as John and Mary were dancing, Sherlock slipped quietly away from the party, wrapping his coat around him as if it were a shield, never looking back. A message from Mycroft appeared on his phone: "That's why I told you not to get involved."

"At that time I didn’t realize he left so early," John murmured, "and after, I thought it was just because he hated parties. But now…"

"Now what does this look like to you, John?" Everett asked.

"It looks like a goodbye."

John reached out to Sherlock, to hold him back, because he couldn’t bear to see him like that, but Ross stopped him: "It's useless, he can’t see you."

The next scene brought them to the hospital, after Mary had shot Sherlock: he had just left the operating room, his life was still hanging by a thread. Everett and John were standing next to his bed, and even if Sherlock couldn’t see or hear him, John wanted to grab his hand, encourage him and make him feel he was there.

Suddenly someone quietly opened the door: it was his ex-wife, disguised as a nurse.

"What... what are you doing here?"

Instinctively, he stood between Mary and Sherlock's bed, but the woman passed through him, like he was a ghost.

"What are you doing?” John shouted, “he just risked to die at your hands! Leave him alone, go away!"

"I told you: they can’t hear or see us, we're not here for real," Ross reminded him, but John didn’t listen.

"How can you be so cruel,” he hissed, a few inches from her face. “About one thing you were right: if I had known who you really were, I would never fall in love with a person like you."

"Sherlock,” whispered Mary in a stern voice, “Sherlock, wake up."

John withdrew, a grimace of disgust painted on his face: "At the pool, during the confrontation with Moriarty, Sherlock told him he didn’t have a heart, but he was wrong. He has a huge heart, you're the one who has a void in the middle of the chest."

Mary touched Sherlock's bare shoulder to make him wake up and called him again.

Sherlock's eyelashes flickered and he opened his eyes with difficulty. Immediately Mary leaned over him, cold and cynical: "Don’t tell John. Can you hear me? Don’t tell him,” she threatened, “or next time you will not be so lucky. I can miss a shoot once, but not twice."

John collapsed on his knees and covered his mouth with one hand.

The cloak on Ross's shoulders hurried to stroke his shoulders in a gesture of comfort.

"Are you alright?" Everett asked, kneeling in front of him.

"No, I’m not fucking alright: Sherlock never told me this. He told me only that it was Mary who shot him, but not that she had threatened him while he was still struggling between life and death. And that shot,” he swallowed and took a deep breath, fighting the nausea that gripped his stomach, “it had never been a surgery: Mary wanted to kill him for real. So why did Sherlock push me to come back to her?" John asked, jumping up.

The cloak carried them to an empty room with white walls, where short movies of John’s life flowed: John going out with Sarah, then with Jeanette, then with another woman whose he didn’t remember the name, John who said to Irene Adler that he wasn’t gay, John telling Angelo he wasn’t Sherlock's boyfriend, without noticing that his face was darkening, John forgiving Mary despite everything and coming back with her.

_ "You chose her." _

"Oh…"

Sherlock had pushed him back to Mary because he believed it was what John really wanted, because maybe he was resigned to the fact that John would never want anything else in life. Surely not him.

And finally, Everett and John found themselves in Mycroft's office. The man had just handed Mary the three blank passports.

"It's the best solution,” the woman said, looking at Sherlock. “John will be safe and will have the life he has always wanted."

The expression on her face was almost triumphant, like a general emerging victorious from a war.

"It was nice to meet you, Mr. Holmeses," Mary concluded, before leaving the room. Neither of them replied, but after a moment, Mycroft offered a cigarette to his brother.

Sherlock lit it without hesitation.

"You'll never see him again. Are you really okay with that?" Mycroft asked, after a few minutes of heavy silence.

"What I want doesn’t matter, it only matters that John and what he loves are safe. And anyway he's already gone, in a way."

He turned off the cigarette and left.

It wasn’t true that Sherlock didn’t care about him, but he let him go because he thought John was already walking on a different road.

And all that Sherlock had done, was to protect John and to make him. He misjudged and shouldn’t have take decisions in his place, but Ross was right: he had never wanted to voluntarily harm him.

Instead he had been the one to hurt him, physically and in the soul, wounding him with his fists only to vent his anger, and cutting him with words full of gall.

John had did this to the most important person in his life, and now he couldn’t believe he had been such a piece of shit.

"The journey ends here," announced Everett.

"You were right, you know?"

"About what?"

"I'm an idiot and also an asshole."

Ross snorted a chuckle: "Not at the last stage, since you realize it. Where do you want to go?"

"Take me to him," John answered without hesitation.

"Immediately. Just one piece of advice: pay attention to the road."

"What?"

But Ross and the cloak had already disappeared.


	11. 10. Black ice

"What is supposed to happen?" Sherlock asked again, but when he opened his eyes, he was no longer in Strange’s building.

He was sitting again in his car, driving in the countryside, and there was no one in the passenger seat.

Sherlock decelerated, moved to the side of the road, and turned off the engine, leaning back in his seat.

Had he dreamed everything? Had it been a hallucination?

He looked down, and found a folded yellow note on his knees.

"It's not a hallucination, idiot" it said, in an elegant and elongated handwriting.

So it was all true: he had been kidnapped by a sorcerer and tossed around the universe like a parcel.

He was still overwhelmed by the experience, but now he understood how John felt, helpless and at the mercy of events, while he and Mary decided of his future without telling him anything.

He had behaved horribly with John, it wasn’t a problem to admit it.

And now, what was he supposed to do?

Strange had seemed confident that, thanks to that enlightening experience, everything between them would be fixed, but Sherlock highly doubted it: he had realized he had made many mistakes, but it was useless.

Indeed, in light of his new awareness, the situation seemed even more irremediable: John had valid reasons to hate him and to want him out of his life, and there was nothing that Sherlock could do to change the past and what he had done.

He could apologize, but after all the lies he had told him over the years, there was no reason for John to believe him.

And Sherlock didn’t think it would be pleasant to see him again, after their fight at Baker Street.

However, what was the alternative? He could keep on driving to follow a case he didn’t care about, and going on with his life like nothing happened, but it would have been almost like to keep lying to John.

No, John had to know the truth: now Sherlock understood he had been wrong and wanted to apologize for the harm he had done. But John should also know how much Sherlock had been hurt by his words.

The truth had two sides.

They both have the right to a sincere and definitive clarification, even if it was the last one, and John hadn’t forgiven him. But at least, Sherlock would haven’t any regrets and could go on with his life. Or at least, he could try.

He took his phone, but there was no signal in that zone and, rather than venturing further into the countryside, he decided to go back.

He set the wipers in motion, because in the short time he had stopped, almost an inch of snow had accumulated on the windscreen, then he turned the car.

As he drove toward London, his mind continued to think about the way Strange had opened his eyes: he had been really blind to not see how much his behaviour had hurt John, and he had been deeply selfish in having excluded him from important decisions concerning his life.

He shouldn’t have decided to give him a new identity and, years before, he shouldn’t have kept him in the dark about his plan against Moriarty.

If only Sherlock had spoken openly with John in the past, now things would have been very different between them. John had always been by his side, he would have supported any plans of his, he would never have turned his back on him.

Sherlock gripped the wheel: how could he not have noticed the colossal mistakes he had made?

Suddenly the car slid dangerously toward the side of the road; instinctively Sherlock counter-steered but, because of the speed, the car started spinning like a crazy top.

_ "Black ice," _ was the only thing that Sherlock could think of in those seconds.

It was ironic: just like it happened in his relationship with John, he was sure of his decisions, and marched straight on his way, but eventually slid on something he couldn’t see.

Without control, the car slid off road, crashing into a big oak tree; but Sherlock remembered Strange's words:  _ "when it happens, take your hands off the steering wheel," _ and followed the advice, a moment before the airbag inflated.


	12. 11. Blizzard

John found himself seated behind the wheel of Mrs. Hudson's Aston Martin, parked in a rest area of the highway; on the sat nav were set the coordinates of the place where Sherlock was directed.

Everett Ross and that strange magic cloak had disappeared into nothingness, in the same way they had appeared, but there was a blue note resting on his knees, with an imperious message on it: "Move and find him!"

"Christ,” he exhaled, raking a hand through his hair, “it really happened."

Outside London, the snowfall was more intense than ever, and very few cars ventured along the road.

It would have been much wiser to go back, but after seeing his past from a new angle, John wanted to reach Sherlock, talk to him and apologize for how he behaved, but also to make Sherlock understand that he shouldn’t have decided about his life behind his back. They both had the right to a honest talk.

Anyway, John didn’t think it would help to mend their relationship, like Ross seemed to believe. He had quite lost hope about it: even if Sherlock had felt something for him in the past, after what John had done, now he just hated him for sure.

John tried to call Sherlock, to ask him where he was, but he couldn’t reach him, so his only option was to follow the direction on the sat nav and hope to catch up on time, before Sherlock did something mad and irreparable.

Mrs. Hudson said Sherlock was was like crazy because he said he was no longer himself, but John knew why Sherlock was acting like that: those were the words John had screamed at him as he hit him.

_ "You're not Sherlock Holmes, you're just a nameless lie." _

The snow fell incessantly and the wind blew strong on the countryside; it was a real blizzard and, despite being very focused on driving, John found himself thinking that the snowstorm was very similar to his current feelings: agitated, confused, wild.

Everett Ross was right: there were things about Sherlock that he didn’t know, that had been buried deep, like these fields under the snow, things that he hadn’t been able to see.

Over time, and because of what happened in his life, John had covered Sherlock with prejudices and misjudgements, like layers and layers of snow: Sherlock was a machine, he didn’t feel anything, he lied and manipulated everyone without reason, only for the sake of doing it, Sherlock had never considered John a friend.

By doing it, John had thus ended up concealing in his own eyes Sherlock’s true nature, which he had actually seen and knew: Sherlock was the man who had saved him from an abyss of loneliness and depression when he returned to London after Afghanistan, he was the man who had transformed his life, who had sacrificed himself for John happiness, who had placed John before everything, even his own health.

John left the highway, taking a secondary road, and he prayed that this was the route chosen by Sherlock too.

He had asked Ross to be taken to Sherlock, and he doubted that the man would put him on a wrong trail, because he seemed genuinely interested that he and Sherlock made peace, even if John didn’t understand why.

However, there was no sign of Sherlock and the snow on the road had covered any traces of other tires.

A gust of wind hit the car sideways, causing it to slip, but John didn’t stop: he was afraid of getting stuck or ending up in a ditch, but Sherlock was out there too, and John wouldn’t give up until he reached him.

_ "I'm ready when you are." _

It had been like that between them in the past, and John wished that things hadn’t changed.

The day drew to a end, and the night advanced fast; in addition to the snow, now also the darkness made the journey difficult.

Illuminated by the blue headlights of the car, the countryside had a ghostly appearance; as John advanced slowly, he saw the headlights of another car before him, but the vehicle wasn’t moving: perhaps someone had been stuck in the snow. 

When he got closer he noticed that it was much worse than that: a car, now almost completely covered by the snow, was off road, after having crashed against a tree. Not at very high speed, thanks heavens, since the headlights were still on and the hood wasn’t too damaged, but it was still a bad accident.

The driver was lucky, however, because without the headlights on, John probably wouldn’t have noticed the off-road vehicle.

John took his car near the tree, and tried to call for help, but there was no signal.

"Shit!" He hissed, then got off the car and was hit by a icy wind.

"Hey! Hey, are you alright?"

No answer: either the driver of the vehicle had already left and was looking for help, or it wasn’t a good sign.

He brushed the snow from the window with his hand, and was left paralyzed by the shock when he saw that the unconscious man sitting in the driver's seat was Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" He punched his fists on the glass, but didn’t get an answer, so he tried to open the door, but it was locked from the inside. He circled the car and used a large broken branch to repeatedly hit the passenger side window until it was shattered, and finally unlocked the doors from inside.

"Sherlock... Sherlock, please, no..." John whispered as he brought two fingers closer to his carotid. He felt the pulsations strong and regular, and the relief invaded him, then went on to assess the damage: the seat belt was fastened and the airbag had inflated. Sherlock had no obvious wounds, only a hematoma on the left temple: he probably hit his head against the car door.

"Sherlock!" John tried to call him again, and this time he received a faint moan in response; a few moments later Sherlock's eyes opened slowly and assessed the surroundings.

His head throbbed painfully and something was clutching his right wrist in a iron grip: it was a hand. Sherlock looked up the arm to which the hand belonged, until he met John's pale, worried face.

"What is it, another test? I told you I have understood, you can stop," Sherlock murmured, annoyed, believing it was another trick of Doctor Strange.

"Test? It must be the blow to the head," muttered John, who didn’t pay much attention to Sherlock’s words: it was normal that he was confused after the accident.

"What is the purpose of making me see this illusion?" Asked Sherlock, apparently talking to the roof of the car.

"Don’t freak out” John pleaded, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Do you remember what happened?"

"I was driving back to London, the car slid on black ice and crashed against this tree. And I must have a concussion, judging by how persistent this hallucination is."

"I'm not a hallucination," John assured him, but Sherlock snorted, annoyed: "Of course you are: it's impossible that John is here."

His words were harsh and embittered, and for a moment John didn’t know what to say, then he grabbed his shoulder again.

"I'm here for real: Mrs. Hudson told me where you were going."

He omitted to tell about Ross and the cloak, because what had happened to him was so crazy that no one would believe him. And anyway it wasn’t important now, the only thing that mattered was that Sherlock was fine.

Finally Sherlock lifted a hand and placed it on John's.

"You're... you're here... you're really here."

"Yes, I'm here."

A gust of icy wind filled the car with snowflakes: he had to take Sherlock to the hospital for a check.

"Now listen to me: can you move your legs? Do you feel pain or tingling somewhere?"

Sherlock stretched out his legs smoothly and moved his arms.

"I'm fine, I only have this bump on the head."

"Let me judge it. Wait here and don’t move."

John got out of the car and walked away a few steps with his phone in hand, hoping to have signal again, but that area seemed not to be covered.

When he turned around, he saw that Sherlock had disregarded his advice, had got out of the car, and was walking around the car.

"Why can’t you ever listen to me?” John shouted, striding towards him, “I told you to stay in the car!"

In Sherlock’s mind popped up the memory of John punching him and, instinctively, he took a defensive position, flattening against the car.

Also John immediately remembered the same episode, and gaped in horror: Sherlock thought he would hit him again, and was afraid of him.

Feeling the shame burning inside him, John looked down at the ground.

"You... had an accident, you have to be careful," he stammered apologetically.

"I'm fine, you don’t have to worry about me."

_ "But I worry for you," _ John thought,  _ "and I'd like to prove it to you. Instead, it seems that now I am only able to terrorize you." _

The pungent cold and the snow that had settled on his shoes in a few minutes reminded John that they had to leave.

"Come, let's go back to London" he mumbled.

John passed beside Sherlock without looking at him, and reached the car.

"Did Mrs. Hudson leave you her Aston Martin?" She had to be very worried about him, and Sherlock noted down to apologize to her, once at home.

John snorted a laugh: "I had no idea she had a car... a car like this, then! How can she afford it?"

"She's the widow of a drug dealer after all," Sherlock observed, opening the door.

John shook his head, still incredulous: "God, I’d rather not to know."

Sherlock laughed too, and for a moment, it was like stepping back in time, during a dinner at Angelo's dinner or as they were giggling on a crime scene, a brief glimpse of serene sky in the middle of a blizzard.


	13. 12. Snowbound

John darted a fleeting glance in Sherlock's direction and relaxed when he saw that Sherlock was no longer frightened, then he started the car, but the wheels spinned in the soft layer of snow and the car didn’t move.

"Oh, c’mon..."

He put the car in reverse and it moved back a few centimeters, but when John shifted to first gear, it got stuck again, wobbling sideways.

"We are stuck."

"Let me try again."

John pressed the accelerator, but the car didn’t move.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!” John hit his fists on the steering wheel. “Okay, come to the driver's seat, while I push the car."

"There’s too much snow on the ground, you will not make it," Sherlock objected, but John had already got off the car.

"Do as I told you!"

Sherlock shook his head, but moved behind the wheel and started the car, while John pushed with all his strength. It was useless: the wheels just continued to spin and, and once they scattered away all the snow beneath them, they reached muddy and soaked ground, finding no grip: it was clear that the car wouldn’t move from there, without the help of a tow truck.

John wiped the sweat from his forehead, tense and worried: it was true that Sherlock was lucid and moved without difficulty, but concussions were tricky and the complications could arise suddenly. Now it was night and the temperature, already freezing, decreased further: the risk of hypothermia was not so remote.

"I can’t believe it..." he murmured: he had plans in mind, he wanted to talk with Sherlock, he had no intention of dying in the countryside.

He climbed back into the car and turned on the heater, and was grateful to Sherlock, who refrained from commenting with "I told you so".

"Someone will have to pass by here sooner or later, we aren’t in a desert land."

"The authorities have advised not to move."

"There will be someone else crazy enough to not care about the advice."

Sherlock snorted loudly: "Crazy like us? I don’t think so."

"Then we will stay in the car tonight: the heating will prevent us from freezing."

Sherlock, however, didn’t agree: "The blizzard is still at its peak: in a short time, it will bury the car and we can’t do anything about it. If the exhaust pipe becomes clogged, we will die suffocated by carbon monoxide. We have to find another shelter."

John's already strained nerves broke down, and he hit his fist on the dashboard: "Stop contradicting me! Why do we always have to do things your way?"

This time Sherlock didn’t freak out in front of his burst of anger; indeed, he got angered in turn.

"Goddammit, John! It's not a game, I'm trying not to make you die. I'm just trying to…” he tsked and shook his head. “It doesn’t work... whatever, do what you want. "

That said, Sherlock opened the door, switched on his phone and walked away in the snow, apparently without a destination. Now he could no longer have a normal conversation with John, because anything that came out of his mouth irritated him.

It was clear that they couldn't talk about anything, let alone about what happened between them.

Strange had been a fool to hope that his intervention would do anything good.

John rubbed his temples and snarled a curse.

Sherlock was right: when he was in Afghanistan, he was stuck in a sandstorm, that had engulfed the engine of their armoured car, and John knew that a snowstorm had the same effects: staying in the car would probably kill them.

_ "After what you've seen, are you really so stupid to think that every single word of him has the purpose of manipulating you? Even in a situation like this?" _

He got out of the car and followed Sherlock, fumbling in the snow and stumbling.

"Where are you going?" He shouted, but Sherlock didn’t answer.

"What is it, dying out here is better than dying in the car?" John continued.

"Before the accident, I noticed a shed at the end of this field. No light on, so it will be uninhabited, but I think it's a better shelter."

"Oh... alright," John murmured, feeling really stupid at this point, and followed him.

It was a disaster: they were fighting as soon as they opened their mouths, and it seemed that Sherlock couldn’t bear even the idea of being next to him.

John couldn’t blame him.

The shed was in fact uninhabited, probably used seasonally by the shepherds who looked after the flocks; luckily there was a fireplace and they found some wood in an old chest, so they could heat up the room and dry their snow-soaked trousers and shoes.

Sherlock leaned against the wall beside the fireplace, brought his knees to his chest and closed his eyes.

"With a concussion it would be better not to sleep" John reminded him cautiously after a minute, while he moved the embers in the fireplace to make room for more wood.

"I know: I'm not sleeping."

"I mean, you can do it if you are tired, but I have to wake you up in a couple of hours to make sure it doesn’t get worse."

"Don’t worry, I'll stay awake," Sherlock replied, and in John's ears he sounded like  _ "I don’t need you." _

He wasn’t surprised.

He got up and went to the window: it was pitch dark and he couldn’t see anything, he only heard the snowflakes hitting the glass, but he stayed there, pretending to look at the landscape, because he didn’t know what else to say. He had looked for Sherlock, wanting to talk with him, but now the task seemed impossible, it was evident that, by now, Sherlock hated him and therefore he wouldn’t have listened to anything John had to say.

Instead Sherlock believed that John was the one who hated him: he deduced that John had come to look for him only because Mrs. Hudson had asked him, but by his stiff posture, by the way he avoided to come closer to him, even in such a small space, it was clear that he regretted that decision and wanted to be anywhere else, but not there with him. 

After all, it was John who walked out of his life and said that he didn’t want to see him again: being forced to face him again was certainly not part of his plans.

And of all the things he wanted to tell John, not one came out of his lips.

They were stuck there, physically and metaphorically, and neither of them had any idea how to get out of the impasse.


	14. 13. Thaw

The minutes lengthened, dense and sticky, and seemed never to pass.

When his legs began to ache for standing up too long, also John sat down next to the fireplace, on the opposite side of Sherlock.

They could see each other, but it was as if there was a brick wall between them.

From under the sole of his shoes, the snow melted and dripped onto the old wooden floor, evaporating or disappearing into the cracks.

The same thing that had happened to them.

"How did we get here?"

John hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but his words filled the air.

Sherlock smacked his lips and spoke slowly: "It's not a pleasant thought, John, but I have this terrible feeling from time to time that we might all just be human."

"Even you?"

"No. Even you." [1]

John wanted to argue, but then nodded slightly: Sherlock was right, in the end, they were exactly that. Not two superheroes, not two legends, not the characters of the stories of his blog, but only two human beings full of flaws.

He ventured a fleeting glance in Sherlock’s direction: lit by the restless flames of the fireplace, his face suddenly appeared aged and profoundly unhappy.

"Listen..."

"I'm tired," Sherlock muttered, interrupting him.

"I am too," John said, "but that's why I think we should talk."

"Can we do it? Or will we end up screaming again?"

John looked at his hands resting on his lap, and shrugged: "We can try."

"What if it doesn’t work?"

John seemed to catch a hint of fear in Sherlock's voice, and he understood him, because if it didn’t work, they had to give up.

But deep down, John didn’t want to, after what Ross had shown him, and he was driven by the hope that neither Sherlock wanted to raise the white flag without a last attempt.

"We'll never know if we don’t try."

They were silent for a while, listening to the snow tapping on the dirty windows, and finally Sherlock took courage and spoke. After all, it was what he wanted to do, after his meeting with Strange, even though he was afraid of the outcome of that conversation.

"I don’t really know how we get here,” he pointed to them with a wave of his hand, “but I know when it started, and it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have hid to you my plan to defeat Moriarty's criminal organization, instead I treated you as if you were just a pawn in a chess game, as if you had no importance. And, after that time I did it again, and only recently I opened my eyes and understood how this made you feel. I'm sorry and I apologize for this, even if you don’t believe me."

He didn’t talk about Strange: John would have thought that he had gone mad because of the blow to the head, and it was irrelevant right now.

"Who says I don’t believe you?"

"You said it, the last time we met: I'm just a nameless lie. That's what you think of me, so why should you believe me now?"

Sherlock stretched his legs in front of him and leaned his head against the wall, resigned.

This time there wasn’t a bomb to defuse or dangers between them; John sensed there were no deceptions in Sherlock’s words and he wasn’t manipulating him.

There was only the truth, naked, almost ridiculous in its simplicity: _ 'I'm sorry and I apologize for this' _ .

After all, it was everything John wanted: that Sherlock opened his eyes, saw him and realized how much had hurt him to feel invisible in the eyes of his best friend.

"Sometimes I felt like I had no control over my life, like my will wasn’t important and, consequently, I wasn’t important at all. It was like drifting away, and this enraged me," John explained.

Sherlock twisted his lips in a grimace: thanks to the intervention of Doctor Strange now he understood perfectly what John felt.

"And I believe you," John added.

"Sherlock leaned over the fireplace to look at John’s face, "Really?"

He seemed genuinely surprised.

"Yes, really."

"John, I never wanted to hurt you, and I didn’t lie to you with the intention of making you feel like that: the situation was dangerous and I wanted you to be safe, but in the end I got it all wrong."

"I can understand why you did it, but you had to let me decide."

"Now I know."

"I was a soldier, Sherlock: did you really think I wasn’t able to help you?"

"No, I never thought of this. But Moriarty had a hitman ready to kill you, and back then I had no idea what else his criminal organization had in store. It could have been even more dangerous."

"You have dealt with it, though."

Sherlock shrugged: "I thought that if I failed, nothing would have changed for you, because you thought already that I were dead."

John covered his face with his hands and groaned: the same spirit of sacrifice that had led Sherlock to protect Mary when she had shot him, or to kill Magnussen to protect them.

The opposite of a machine.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, reading his discomfort.

"It's amazing how you manage to be both selfless and selfish at the same time. I’m not saying that the sacrifices you made for me are to be despised... no one has ever done for me what you did, and I will always be grateful to you, but you have to take better care of your life: there are people who would suffer if you died."

Sherlock made a guttural sound, as if to say that he didn’t believe him, but John insisted: "They would suffer enormously."

He was included in the list, too, but didn’t have the guts to say it aloud.

"I promise I will never manipulate you again, and I will not take decisions in your place," Sherlock replied evasively, because he knew very well that if one day John would be in danger again, he wouldnìt hesitate to risk his own life to save him.

"Thank you. See? It isn’t that difficult."

"Well, then we cleared up," Sherlock said, returning to lean against the wall. "Right?"

John got up and retrieved more wood to burn, then knelt by the fireplace, closer to where Sherlock sat.

"No, not at all: now it's my turn."

"To do what?"

"To apologize. I had no right to hit you like I did: it doesn’t matter if I was furious, or if I was drunk, I shouldn’t have. And you should report me to the police as soon as we get back to London."

Sherlock said nothing, he just stared at the tips of his muddy shoes: of course, John's fists had been painful, but above all he had been hurt by his words. Didn’t he understand it?

"And the things I told you…” John murmured, hiding his face in his hands, “how could I compare you to her? You're not like Mary, I've never thought it for real, you have to believe me. It's just that back then I wanted to hurt you in every possible way."

"It's okay," Sherlock reassured him, because it was true: somehow John understood what had really hurt him, and it was what he wanted.

John shook his head vehemently: "No, it’s not okay."

"No, but that's what it is." [2]

"It's disgusting,” John snorted, frowning, “what we've done to each other. But I promise you that I will become a better person: I will go back to my therapist and I’ll never raise a finger on you again. I don’t want to be a person you're afraid of."

John ventured a quick glance in Sherlock’s direction, and saw him open his mouth in amazement.

"You don’t believe me. Well, it’s understandable."

"No, it's not that."

"So what?"

"We no longer live together, nor do we meet sometimes. There will not be more occasions when my behavior could make you lose your temper, so if you do it for me..."

"I do it also for myself, because what I did was wrong. I told you: I deserve to go to jail for having raised hands on you. Anyway I understand you, if you don’t want to have anything to do with me anymore." Then John swallowed, trying to fight the lump that constricted his throat.

"Isn’t it what you want?" Sherlock asked.

John moved the poker around the burning embers.

"No, not anymore. I think I never wanted it, in fact. I immediately regretted what I did to you, but I was too ashamed, and couldn’t call to ask your forgiveness."

"I wish you had," Sherlock confessed.

John put a hand on his ankle, the only part of him that he could reach without moving.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

After a moment, Sherlock leaned forward and covered John’s hand with his.

"You too."

John rolled his wrist and gently squeezed his hand, in the most intimate and delicate gesture he had ever had shared with Sherlock, and he felt the anger, the pain and the frustration melting slowly and slipping away, like snow in the sun.

"You're trembling, come closer to the fire."

Sherlock crawled close to him and watched the flames, his shoulder brushing against John's with every breath. The fatigue caused by the car crash, but also by the restlessness of the last period, had the better of him; he closed his eyes, and when he opened them he was lying on his side, covered not only by his coat, but also by John's jacket.

The wind had stopped blowing, and it was dawning.

"Ah, you're awake," John said, looking away from the window. "How do you feel?"

"Better," said Sherlock, touching his temple. "The headache has gone."

"It stopped snowing, but since the there’s no more firewood, I think we should move to get help."

"Hm."

They left their shelter and returned on the road. Finally, a few miles further on, the phone had signal again, and they could call a tow truck to tow both vehicles.

"Where will I leave you?" Asked the driver of the vehicle.

Sherlock gave the address of Baker Street, then nodded to John.

_ "Of course,” _ the ex-soldier thought, _ “we can’t go back to live together out of the blue." _

They had cleared up and forgiven each other, but their whole relationship couldn’t be mended with a snap of fingers, it would take time. Then, John gave the address of the pension where he lived, even if the idea of returning there was appalling.

"Did you sell the house?" Sherlock asked with a hint of amazement.

"Yes, I couldn’t stay there anymore."

"Do you miss anything of it?"

"No,” John replied, without hesitation, “there was nothing left for me, there."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock exhaled in a sigh.

"Don’t. You don’t have to apologize for things you didn’t do."

"You didn’t want for things to go this way, I'm sorry for that."

John shrugged and repeated Sherlock's words: "It is what it is," managing to make Sherlock smile.

"See you again?" Sherlock asked, in front of Baker Street door.

A hope.

A wish.

The pursuit for a confirmation that they could work again.

"Yes,” John said, “I'll call you in the next few days, okay?"

"Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] [2] From The Lying Detective


	15. 14. Flu

As soon as he walked in, Sherlock apologized to Mrs. Hudson for making her worry; she forgave him, seeing that he was better now, and that her precious Aston Martin had come back without a scratch.

Then he called Lestrade to say him to take care of the case of the traffickers: he had never been interested in it, he only took it following a crazy impulse, driven by frustration, and now that he had the chance to get closer to John again, he was even less interested.

However, after a quick shower, he began to feel the symptoms of an indisposition, because of the cold he had suffered.

Initially it was just an annoying tingle in the throat, that Sherlock tried to alleviate with honey, then it came a persistent headache, that made impossible for him to look at the computer screen.

He consumed a light meal, because he hadn’t eat anything since the day before and was quite hungry, but after dinner, a heavy stomach ache added to the other symptoms.

He took refuge under the covers, sighing: he hated being ill, his transport didn’t work properly, and this made him feel helpless and miserable.

He rolled over in bed without being able to sleep, while the stomach ache increased and became a strong nausea that made him feel like he was suffocating.

He jerked up and ran to the bathroom, a moment before throwing up the dinner in the toilet; he was shivering with cold and a moment later his skin was covered with sweat. He touched his forehead, finding it scalding hot, and dragged himself to the medicine cabinet; took two tablets of paracetamol and took a sip of water directly from the tap, but his stomach rebelled again.

He knelt on the toilet, until he was sure he wouldnìt vomit again, then stood up with difficulty, leaning against the doorframe because he felt terribly dizzy, and dragged himself to bed again.

He shuddered with every breath, and felt more and more in pain, his bones aching and preventing him from resting.

An episode of when he was a child came to his mind: he had been for too long under the snow, playing and running around, and caught the flu. 

On that occasion, Mycroft only raised briefly his eyes from the book he was reading. “I had warned you that he would be sick, Sherlock,”he said in his calm and indolent voice, “you should have to come home when I had told you. Now you’ll face face the consequences of your recklessness. Every move of ours has a consequence, Sherlock. You must learn it."

His parents were less cold, but they only told him that he should have patience and wait for the fever to pass.

"But I'm sick," he complained.

"You will heal Sherlock, it's just a flu, not the end of the world," his mother offered him, before returning to her job.

But he was just a child, the armor he had built over the years, wasn’t there yet, and he just wanted someone to hold his hand and say, _ "I'm sorry if you're sick, I stay here with you until you feel better, and even after, if you want." _

In his agitated half-sleep, that memory turned into a nightmare, mingling with fragments of his imagination, where he sank into the asphalt in the middle of a large square, in the indifference of the faceless passers-by who walked around him, and other memories from his youth, memories of him, stretched out on a filthy mattress in a crack house, waiting for the heroine to take effect and for oblivion to fall on him.

But then the nightmares ceased, driven away by the pleasant sensation of a fresh hand on the forehead, a warm, sweet taste on the tongue, and a familiar voice that whispered reassuringly: "Don’t worry, I'm with you."

Of course it was a dream, too, a comforting illusion created by his mind, because there was no one there with him.

"But it would be nice if it were true," Sherlock murmured in his feverish delirium.

The hand rested on his hair.

"If it were true, what?" The voice asked.

"If there was someone here."

He fell asleep immediately after, and couldn’t hear the strangled, almost distraught answer of the voice.

"I'm here."

Sherlock rested quietly for several hours and when he woke up, a pale winter sun filtered through the curtains, and the city traffic was at its peak: it had to be very late.

He was still sick, his throat was sore to the point that it hurt to swallow, bones and muscles were still aching, but the fever had dropped, and the headache receded to a bearable discomfort.

On the bedside table he found a glass of water and two paracetamol tablets. He didn’t remember putting them there, even if it was possible: he had rather confused memories of the night before.

He stood up cautiously, but fortunately the vertigo had ceased too. He wanted to take a bath and wash away the sweat and the sense of dirt that the flu had left on him, but then he heard a sneeze and a cough coming from the living room.

They were decidedly masculine sounds. Not Mrs. Hudson, then. Lestrade? Mycroft?

Intrigued, he put on his dressing gown and left the bedroom, but the man standing in the kitchen, intent on blowing his nose, was neither the inspector of Scotland Yard nor his brother, it was John. 

It was like the last few years had never passed, like to return to the early days of their cohabitation, when John's presence in that house was natural, and everything was easy and light.

"John..." he murmured hoarsely.

John put the handkerchief back in his pocket, looking almost embarrassed.

"Ah, I'm sorry. Did I wake you up?"

"No,” he reassured, “I was already awake."

"How do you feel?"

"Not good, but better than yesterday."

"I know you probably have no appetite, but you should try to have breakfast and drink at least a very sweetened hot tea, it will help you to feel less weak. Then I would like you to go back to bed: you moved around and I predict that in the next few hours the fever will rise again, so..."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, interrupting him.

"Last night, after the tow truck left me at the pension, I got a cold: when we got stuck in the snow, we freezed, our clothes were wet and it was bound to happen. Then I thought you'd been unconscious in the car for several hours and you were probably feeling worse than me. And I was right."

Sherlock frowned, trying to remember the night before, after he threw up and went back to bed.

"Are you here since last night?"

"Yes. I tried to call, but you didn’t pick up. Mrs. Hudson confirmed that you were home, so I came to see how you were, and you were not well."

"It's just a flu, it will pass," Sherlock said, repeating what his mother had told him when he was a child.

"What does it mean? Now you're sick. I already told you: you have to take better care of yourself."

"I tried!” Sherlock protested, “I took paracetamol, but I threw up."

"Yes, I saw it. That’s why, as a doctor, I gave you some drops of Novalgin in hot tea, but you were so feverish that you didn’t realize."

Sherlock wondered how much of the night before was true, and how much was only the product of his imagination: John was there, and that was a fact, but had he really caressed his hair and said he was there with him?

He didn’t have the guts to ask it out loud, and then, it was impossible: it was true that they had made peace and were getting closer again, but that seemed too much too soon.

"Where did you sleep?” he asked instead. “You're sick too, and the sofa is not good for your back."

"Well... I slept in my old room upstairs. I hope you don’t mind."

"Why should I? It was the best choice,” Sherlock answered. John hadn’t stopped to sleep at Baker Street for almost a year, but the idea that he was back felt right. That place and his own life were more complete with John's presence, so he would always be welcome.

"It hasn’t changed, my room," John remarked after a brief pause, placing his cup of tea in the sink.

"I don’t cultivate the hobby of interior designing," Sherlock muttered, shrugging. "Why should I change it?"

"That’s not what I mean: there is still the bed and every piece of furniture is in the same position as the day I left,” John scratched his head. “To be honest I thought you had turned it into an extra laboratory."

"No I didn’t." That room was a memorial of the most beautiful period of his life, so he hadn’t used it and had never looked for other flatmates, who would have violated it. That room would always have belonged to John, even if he had never come back.

_ "Why?” _ John wanted to ask, “ _ why didn’t you change anything, as if I had to come back at any moment? As if you were was still waiting for me, despite everything? Despite I don’t deserve it?" _

However, he said nothing: their relationship, just rebuilt, was still as fragile as crystal, and somehow John felt that it wasn’t the right time, with Sherlock being sick and all.

But that night he had rested well in his old bed, despite the cold, he hadn't rest that well in years, and his old room felt like home.”

“It’s good, right?” Sherlock asked hesitantly, “So you had a bed where to sleep."

"Yes, very good. Perfect, actually."

Going back to sleep in Baker Street after a long time made him feel at home.


	16. 15. Hot chocolate

"So, breakfast. Would you like something to eat? "John asked.

Sherlock grimaced: his throat still felt like sandpaper, and just the idea of chewing bread bothered him, but he couldn’t even eat eggs and ham for now.

"Hot chocolate."

It was the only thing that he wanted: it was sweeter and more satisfying than tea, but not too heavy for his stomach.

John shook his head, the smile on his lips halfway between amused and exasperated.

"Try again to deny that you have a sweet tooth."

"Maybe... ah!"

"What?"

"I remembered that I have no instant chocolate at home. It doesn’t matter, I'll drink a tea."

"Instant chocolate sucks! John stated, wrinkling his nose, “If you have some milk, a bar of chocolate, cocoa and sugar, I'll make it myself."

"You can do it?"

"Yes, it's very easy to prepare, it takes no more than five minutes."

John opened the kitchen cupboards, looking for bowls and ingredients, and couldn’t help but smiling when he had to move an old microscope to reach the cocoa: "I see you still place random stuff everywhere."

Sherlock sat down and shrugged: he didn’t like changes. He accepted them when they came, but he didn’t encourage them.

John began to work: he tore the chocolate to pieces and melted it in the microwave, put a pot of milk to boil over the stove, and sieved the cocoa.

Sherlock watched him carefully and in silence, and after a while John laughed nervously: he wasn’t annoyed, but Sherlock’s behaviour was strange, he had never been interested in cooking.

"Am I really a show worthy of attention?"

"Yes: you never made hot chocolate."

It wasn’t just that, to be honest: it was nice to have John back and to see him making things, instead of having to take refuge in his Mind Palace, to live moments like those.

"What?” John protested, “when I lived here, I was cooking all the time!"

"Not the hot chocolate," Sherlock insisted.

"How can you say that?"

"I remember it."

John stopped for a moment to mix the milk and cocoa: had Sherlock watched him so carefully when they lived together, to remember every gesture of him?

He had never noticed it, but then he had never noticed many things, and now he was happy to have the chance to make amends.

"Anyway, it's not a big deal," John shrugged. "I mean, your mom made it for you or Mycroft sometimes, right?"

"No, there was only instant chocolate in our house. The baby sitter made it every now and then."

John thought it was incredibly sad. "Oh... not even at Christmas?"

"No. Should she have?"

"Well... it's a typical drink of this period. For example, our mother made it for Harry and me on Christmas morning instead of milk and cereals. And even if I try, I can’t make a chocolate as good as hers: it had a secret ingredient that she never revealed. I made several attempts using nutmeg, cinnamon, orange peel, but nothing works."

John was lost in memories as he finished the preparation, but when he reached for the sugar jar, Sherlock stopped him.

"Can you use honey instead?"

"If you want, but I've never tried, I don’t know how it will taste."

"It could become your secret ingredient."

"Alright, then."

John poured two cups of hot, thick chocolate, sweetened them with the honey he found and tasted it: it had a taste different from sugar, very aromatic and less sweet than he thought. It surprised him, because he actually thought it would be too sweet, almost nauseous.

"Hey, not bad."

It wasn’t like his mother's chocolate but, as Sherlock said, it was John Watson’s chocolate.

"What honey is it? It has a special taste."

"Lavender honey."

"Where did you get it? It's not something you usually find at the supermarket."

John took another spoonful of honey: it had an almost acid and very persistent aftertaste. He had never had anything like this in his life, it almost tasted like a new beginning, like his relationship with Sherlock.

John hoped it was a good omen.

"I didn’t buy it, it's the gift that client from Sussex gave me a few months ago, for solving a case. It was hardly a four and finding out that he was a beekeeper was probably the most interesting part of the whole case."

"Since when do you accept a four?" John asked, laughing.

Sherlock put the empty cup on the saucer and shrugged: "I had nothing to do and was very bored. It seemed like a way to pass the time."

Before meeting John, Sherlock would have found something better to do: an experiment, a study, pestering Molly to perform an autopsy. But after John had entered and left his life, many things had lost their charm, and not even devoting himself to what he had loved before seemed interesting anymore, the enthusiasm washed away by the oppressive loneliness left by John’s absence.

_ "Is that how you lived when I wasn’t there, passing the time?”  _ John wondered sadly.  _ “Did you feel that lonely?” _

"However, I earned good honey, so in the end it wasn’t completely wasted time."

John frowned: "A few months ago, did you say? I don’t remember listening you telling me about this case."

Sherlock shifted in his chair, nervously fiddling with his empty cup and suddenly wasn’t looking at him anymore.

"I... I didn’t think you were interested anymore. You had other commitments, I didn’t want to intrude and create problems."

Other commitments... a marriage to keep together and a daughter, who John believed was his, to take care of; Sherlock had stayed away, walking on tiptoe in order not to disturb that fragile equilibrium, which then turned out to be illusory.

"Yeah, well... seen how it ended, it was better to get bored together on a four."

"John..."

"No Sherlock, the problems came out eventually, because you weren’t the one creating them."

Suddenly, even the chocolate tasted more bitter, and John grimaced.

"Another spoonful of honey?” offered Sherlock, pushing the jar towards him. “Sometimes it helps."

"My blood sugar level will not thank you, but... why not?"

John was leaving the past behind and, as horrible as it had been finding out that Rosie wasn’t his daughter, discovering the truth had been the best thing. He would have liked to see Mary again just for that reason: to tell her she was wrong, that the truth was always the best option.

Because the truth was now helping him to rebuild the relationship with Sherlock, and nothing seemed more important than that.


	17. 16. Fireplace

Sherlock shivered, and John reached out to touch his forehead. It was hot.

"I knew it, you stayed up too long and the fever went up again. You have to take Novalgin and go back to bed."

"I've been up for less than an hour," he protested.

"I know, but you're sick, so do as I told you. End of discussion."

"But…"

"Do you want to be sick like last night?"

Sherlock grimaced in disgust: "No, of course not."

"Then take the medicine: it will make you rest and fight the fever."

Seeing that John was really assertive, Sherlock gave up, also because he still felt tired and weak.

"All right."

John was surprised by his docility, and thought that Sherlock was feeling worse than he showed.

"Don’t worry: I'll come to your room from time to time to see how you are."

At those words, Sherlock's mouth opened in a little 'o' of amazement, and made John laughing nervously.

"What?"

"I thought you'd go home: you're not feeling well too, and you need to rest."

"I’ve just a light cold and I can rest here,” John replied, looking at the old table, stained with all kinds of chemicals, “unless you prefer me to leave."

After all, Baker Street was Sherlock's house now.

Sherlock was also looking at the table, as if that screen could make the conversation easier.

"I've dealt with worse situations, you don’t have to be the doctor and stay here."

John straightened up in his chair: "What if I wanted to stay? Not as a doctor, but as..."

_ 'Friend' _ he wanted to say, but he stopped, biting his lips: he didn’t know if he still had the right to consider himself a friend.

Finally Sherlock looked up too, and came to his rescue: "Then stay."

"Very well,” John's tension faded with a smile. “Anyway, Sherlock..."

"Yes?"

"You always have to go back to bed."

Sherlock smiled too, then returned to his room, while John washed the dishes. 

Then he mused that Sherlock hadn’t had a real meal since the day before, so he went down to ask Mrs. Hudson if she had some chicken: he wanted to boil it and prepare Sherlock a soup.

"And then?" The woman wanted to know. She wasn’t particularly friendly with him, but at first John didn’t notice.

"Er, nothing else, at least for today. You know, yesterday Sherlock threw up, and can’t eat too much."

Mrs. Hudson glared at him, silently asking if he was really that dull, and sighed: "I'm not talking about the lunch: you'll make chicken soup, and then what will you do, will you go back to your pension?"

John massaged his temples, "Mrs. Hudson, things are still complicated: Sherlock and I hurt each other for the wrong reasons, this can’t be deleted or changed. We need time to make things work again between us."

"Seven years seems more than enough time to me. Or do you want to wait for seven more?" She asked, challenging John to contradict her with a stern look.

Seven years... suddenly John realized that it was really a lot of time: they had many opportunities to fix things and take another road, but they didn’t and, in the end, everything had gone to hell. How many opportunities would they still have? This could really be their last chance to make it right.

He looked at his old landlady and nodded: he understood the meaning of her speech.

"Time flows only in one direction, John," she warned him.

"I know."

Mrs. Hudson took a pot and filled it with hot water, vegetables, and pieces of chicken.

"I can do it myself," John protested weakly. "Don’t you always say you are not our housekeeper?"

"I'm not a detective like Sherlock, but I didn’t miss your nasal voice: you're not feeling well, too: you need to rest and also to freshen up a bit."

John ran a hand over his stubble and grimaced.

"You’re right: I'm going back to the pension for a few hours. If Sherlock wakes up, can you tell him where I am?"

"Of course."

John went to his room, phoned the surgery to report that he was ill and he would take a few days of leave, washed and shaved, then opened the closet and sat on the bed: could he already go back living to Baker Street?

Sure, Sherlock had told him he could stay, if that was what he wanted, but he was still tormented by the doubt that he was going too fast.

But Mrs. Hudson was right, too: if he continued to procrastinate the decision, there was the risk of remaining in limbo forever, while time was running fast.

"I'm scared," he admitted in a low voice. A soldier who had been at war and had faced terrorists, had a bloody fear of making his relationship with Sherlock fail again.

Then he remembered Sherlock’s words, about they being only human: after all, fear was a very human feeling, he shouldn’t be ashamed of it. And he could win his fears only by facing them, not fleeing.

If things had gone pear-shaped again, he thought as he took the suitcase and laid it on the bed, at least he wouldn’t had the regret of not having tried. But after what Everett Ross had shown him, John understood Sherlock's feelings better, and felt more confident.

He closed the suitcase with a smile: who knows if one day he would have had the courage to tell Sherlock the crazy experience he had lived.

He came back to Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson gave him a look of approval when she saw that he had a suitcase with him.

"I leave this here for now,” John explained, “I have to talk to Sherlock first."

"Alright. I just brought the chicken soup upstairs, and Sherlock woke up: hurry up, before it gets cold."

"Thanks again."

Sherlock sported a healthier complexion and the fever had dropped; John was very relieved because, if neglected, that flu could easily have degenerated into pneumonia, given the lack of care that Sherlock had of himself.

The chicken soup was very good, the best on such a cold day, so much so that Sherlock didn’t even protest when John poured some more in his plate.

After lunch, John moved into the living room, but noticed that it was colder than the kitchen; he touched the radiator, finding it cold, and threw a questioning look to Sherlock.

"Yes, it's broken: I disassembled it to solve a case, but once I put it back together, strangely it didn’t work anymore and it was leaking, so I just left it there."

"Strangely, you say?"

"Not one of my best moves."

"It's full winter, the room can’t stay cold."

"We can light the fireplace."

"Right."

John lit the fire, took the two armchairs near to the fireplace and sat on his.

He remembered the unpleasant feeling he had, when he returned to Baker Street a month after his marriage and discovered that Sherlock had taken it away.

He had felt rejected, put in a corner like something that was no longer needed: in his mind, his chair had to remain in the living room, because it was its place and John would have found his place, every time he returned to Baker Street. 

Thinking about it now, as he watched the red and yellow flames dancing in the fireplace, the fact that the absence of his armchair had struck him so much, told many things, about where he wanted to really be, about the state of his marriage (and this before to find out who Mary really was) and about the place he called home. He should have seen all those signals, take the courage to look inside himself and make a decision.

Back then, instead, he had been very resentful toward Sherlock, and didn’t understand that he had taken the armchair away because it was the constant reminder that John no longer lived there, and probably the sight of it was unbearable to him.

Yet, after his childish complain, the armchair had returned to its place, in front of the fireplace, ready to welcome him whenever he wanted, even when he didn’t deserve it.

And now? Now did he deserve it?

There was no need to ask, because Sherlock sat on the other chair, stretched his long legs toward the flames and simply said: "Go unpack the suitcase, John: the clothes wrinkle, if they remain folded for too long."


	18. 17. Duvet

"Wednesday morning is perfect, thanks Ella."

John closed the call and marked the appointment with his therapist on a note that he sticked on the mirror of his room.

Someone knocked at the door.

"Come in."

It was Sherlock, bringing him a pile of clean yellow and green towels, and a blue and white striped bathrobe.

"These things were yours: at one point Mrs. Hudson, doing the laundry, put everything in my closet."

John stretched out his arms: "Thank you, I'll put them away right away."

Or course he noticed that Sherlock had knocked: if he wasn’t wrong, he had never done it before; Sherlock had always been a tornado that burst open his door and shouted to follow him because they had a case.

He didn’t mind a little respect for his privacy and the rules of civil coexistence, but a Sherlock that moved around him on tiptoe wasn’t the man he had met, and John didn’t want him to be always like that.

_ "Maybe he's afraid of you being a rage monster again." _

If so, John couldn’t blame him.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had noticed the blue post it on the mirror.

"Yes, I go back to Ella, as I told you,” John confirmed. “Actually, I never stopped therapy, at least until Mary disappeared to go around the world, forcing me to stop the sessions to chase her."

"But…"

"Yes?"

"When you lived here you never went to the therapist."

"No, I didn’t need it. There was nothing wrong with my life at that time."

"You resumed the sessions when I faked my suicide."

"Yes. It was really a bad blow to my psychic balance," John admitted openly. Now, if something hurt him, he no longer kept it hidden within himself, accumulating bad feelings until them exploded, but he talked about it. It was harder for a man with his complex personality, but it was certainly the right way.

"Forgive me," Sherlock whispered, lowering his eyes to the floor.

"I thought we had already forgiven ourselves for hurting each other, and I would like to move on from there. How does it sound?"

Sherlock nodded, then smiled, "Are you sure you need therapy? You already seem very wise to me."

"No," John laughed, "I'm not, and I still have to do an important work on myself."

_ "I don’t want to be someone you're afraid of, I couldn’t stand it." _

"You have brought few items with you" Sherlock stated after a while, looking at John’s closet.

John had dragged his suitcase upstairs, taking possession of his space again: his laptop on the desk, charging, the linen in the drawers, the clothes hanging with military precision in the closet, and the suitcase under the bed.

It took him less than an hour of work, and when Sherlock went upstair to bring him the towels, he had already finished.

John sat on the window frame with his back against the glass.

"You know, there were a lot more things I wanted to leave behind and then, once all the lies were revealed, there was nothing real to take with me, just some clothes."

Sherlock sat down on the bed and caressed the bedspread. Part of him was still struggling to believe that John was really there, after all it could be a cruel joke of Dr. Strange, and he needed more answers.

"I told you many lies, too."

"Yes, it's true."

"So why are we different, me and her?"

Was Sherlock tormented by that? The comparison with Mary? In John's mind the memory of his angry words resurfaced:  _ "You are like her." _

He rubbed his eyes with his fingers and sighed.

"I know I compared you to her, but I didn’t really think that. As I told you, I just wanted to hurt you. It's one of the reasons I'm going back to therapy," he explained, pointing to the post it.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am. If I came back here it's because, under the lies, there's something authentic, there's a solid foundation, something that made me feel the desire to stay here and start again. With Mary the situation was different: there has never been any foundation from the beginning, and what future could there be for us, since she didn’t even use the courtesy to tell me her real name? Instead, our relationship wasn’t born of a lie: we know who we really are and that's all that matters."

_ "You're Sherlock Holmes," _ said John's honest gaze.  _ "I should never have doubted it." _

"Thank you."

"No, I thank you for giving me another chance."

John's words were like a warm blanket that wrapped and shielded him, pushing away the negative feelings that hadn’t yet left him, and the doubt that John really believed that he and Mary were the same kind of person.

"Welcome home, then."

Sherlock stood up and he was about to reach John and hug him, but at last he stopped: physical displays of affection had never been part of their relationship and he didn’t know if John would like it.

Sherlock had long understood that he had deep feelings for John, that went beyond friendship; John was and would have always been the most important person in his life; for John he had put his career, his sanity, and his life into play: he wouldn’t do it for anyone else, but for John he would do it again a thousand times.

Sometimes Sherlock was scared by the force of his emotions, so he thought John would be terrified. Moreover, he didn’t believe John had the same feelings for him, and when he talked about rebuilding their relationship he was referring no doubt to their friendship. 

It was already a lot, and it would have been enough.

However, John sensed his inner conflict, because he tilted his head to one side, becoming serious.

"What's up?"

"Your room is quite cold in winter and this duvet is too light: I'll give you one of my blankets."

"Ah... thank you, in fact I was just about to ask."

"I'll go get it right away."

When Sherlock left the room, the serious expression didnìt leave John's face: for a moment it seemed to him that Sherlock wanted to reach him, even hug him, and the blanket seemed an excuse.

If it happened, John would have had nothing to to object; indeed he found himself wanting a physical contact between them, but after all the wrong ideas he had about Sherlock in the past, John preferred not to make assumptions before having certainties, to avoid other harmful misunderstandings.


	19. 18. Snowplow

Telling Ella what had happened to him in the last few months wasn’t easy.

First of all, even if the therapist was bound by the professional secret, John couldn’t tell her about Mary's murderous past, or about her trying to kill Sherlock. 

Nor he could tell her that he had been kidnapped by his alter ego wearing a magic cloak, who had shown him the truth. Although Ella was sympathetic, she would have had John locked up in a psychiatric hospital.

So John didn’t elaborate, talking about differences between him and Mary that became irreconcilable with time, but anyway it was difficult to open up and talk about his own betrayal, the discovery that Rosie wasn’t his daughter, and how he had vented his anger on Sherlock.

"What's the most frightening thing for you right now?" The woman asked as she took notes.

John tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair: that too was a very difficult question; as a soldier, he had been taught to face death and never show his fears to the enemy.

"I think... to get angry again."

"Why?"

"Because when I get angry, I lose control, especially if I drink. I'm afraid to raise hands on Sherlock again. After that fight, we reconciled, but I'm really afraid of ruining everything again."

"John, I know that you’ll not like what I’m about to say, and that you will be against it, but I think it is very helpful, almost vital to you that, besides our sessions, you also go to some AA meetings. I can suggest you a meeting attended by people who wouldn’t make you uncomfortable," she added, to convince him, but John surprisingly nodded immediately.

"No, you're right, I have to do it: it's a problem I've ignored for too long. I was afraid of that too, you know, to discover I’m just like my sister."

Ella's face betrayed an imperceptible astonishment, then the woman began to write again.

"Is that a good thing?" John asked.

"Yes. Often, and especially during our first sessions, I had the impression that you didn’t believe in therapy, and that you came here just because you had to, but you didn’t expect to have any positive effects, so much so that you didn’t never really opened up with me."

"I may have had an incredulous attitude," John admitted.

"But now I perceive that you are changed, and this is good."

"I am: I swear that I wouldn’t raise my hands on him again."

Ella wrote down again Sherlock’s name: since the beginning of the session, John had mentioned him fifteen times, against Mary's five, and although she knew that the detective had an important role in John's life, it seemed strange that he hadn’t spoken a lot about his former wife. Believing it was a pain that John refused to face, she decided to encourage him to talk about it.

"Let's put your anger aside for a moment. Tell me, did you allow yourself to cry?"

Like many other men Ella had met in that room, John hid behind a shrug, snorting a chuckle. She even expected to hear a sentence that many of her clients said: _ "I don’t cry, it's not manly," _ when, for many of them, ignoring pain and sadness was what brought them to her.

"To be honest, when we forgave each other it was a very intense moment, almost touching, but no, I didn’t cry."

Ella frowned: forgiveness? But John had just told her that Mary was gone. Before she could ask for a clarification, John went on.

"I try not to show myself too sad: because of the horrible things I told him, Sherlock feels responsible for my emotional state. If he saw me crying, he would feel even more guilty, and you know, he is not like everyone else, he really struggles to handle and understand emotions, especially if they’re intense, and has spent almost all his life trying to avoid them. As I told you, I don’t want to hurt him anymore, in any way."

Again Sherlock and not Mary: at this point the therapist thought that maybe she had made a mistake in her initial assessment. Perhaps the ex-wife wasn’t so important to John, not as much as his best friend. And from a psychological point of view, this was very interesting and told a lot of things, but she doubted that John realized that.

"Actually I wasn’t referring to Sherlock, I wanted to know if you cried when Mary told you that Rosie is not your daughter and took her away with her. Perhaps you aren’t aware of it, but the separation you suffered is similar to a mourning."

This time John shook his head, deeply disenchanted.

"No. The truth is that, after having discovered that Mary hadn’t been honest with me about her past, in a corner of my mind I always had the doubt that our relationship was doomed to end. If she had lied to me about her past, she could very well have lied about other things, as she did, indeed."

"What about Rosie?"

"Of course, I hoped that Mary would say that Rosie wasn’t my daughter so I would let her go, but then I realized that our family had never really existed, it was just another lie on a pile of lies."

"Not even then did you feel like crying?"

John thought about it for a long time, remembering the last confrontation with his ex-wife.

"No," he said slowly, "I was deeply embittered and upset, I got angry and kicked some furnitures, but then I thought about it and came to the conclusion that it's right that Rosie grows up with her biological father, rather than with an unstable man like me. In addition, my relationship with Mary had completely deteriorated and was irrecoverable: this would have negative repercussions on Rosie. She is an innocent child, she doesn’t deserve to suffer unnecessary traumas."

"You never wanted to be a father, did you?" Ella asked, surprising him.

For the first time since he had entered the room, John didn’t answer, staring at the tip of his shoes and nervously biting his lips.

"It's not a crime,” Ella reassured him, sensing his shame, “unlike what many people think, the desire for parenting is not inherent in all human beings."

"I loved Rosie from the first moment,” John said hurriedly. “I still love her now, even though I know she's not my daughter. If she ever needs me, I'd help her anyway."

"Nobody doubts it."

The former soldier sighed heavily: "But if you're asking me if Mary and I were planning on expanding the family, you're right, the answer is no, we never talked about it. That's why finding out that she's not my daughter was more shocking than painful."

"I see. Can I ask you then what do you think was the most painful thing of all?"

"This I don’t know, really. It almost seems like you're looking for a reason to make me cry at all costs."

"Crying is cathartic, it helps to purge negative emotions, like a snowplow that cleans the road, so you can set off and drive safely. It would help you."

"Is it my job for the week?"

"No, just a hope for you, even if it seems strange."

In fact, John was very doubtful, both on the therapeutic efficacy of tears, and on the fact that he would cry. He had been a soldier, and soldiers don’t cry.

"Tears are powerful,” Ella insisted, “they always find a way to surface. They could also be triggered by a motivation that seems silly to you, but please keep my advice in mind: if you feel like crying, don’t repress it and don’t feel embarrassed. See you next week."

"I will not miss."

However, as he walked back to the flat, John was increasingly doubtful: crying... the only idea seemed ridiculous. And then, if he hadn’t cried after everything that had happened to him, he didn’t really believe he would do it now.

When he stepped into the house, he noticed that Sherlock had vacuumed and heated up the roasted chicken that Ms. Hudson had prepared in the oven.

John smiled: he wanted to enjoy those moments of joy and didn’t want to cry.

A couple of days later, John returned to Baker Street after work, and met the plumber who was leaving the building.

"Any problem?" He asked Mrs. Hudson: he wanted to take a shower, so he really hoped the boiler wasn’t broken.

"Not this time, thank God, I only called him for a check: in winter, with the cold, the pipes can freeze, and I don’t want to have to deal again with what happened last time."

"Last time?"

"A few months ago a pipe broke in a wall, and flooded my living room."

"What a bother!"

"Yes. Besides the water soaked and totally ruined many of my photo albums."

"How sad," John said, nodding understandingly.

"I had all the photos of Sherlock in an album, knowing how much he disregards these things, and now they’re gone: nothing could be done to save them."

For some incomprehensible reason, those words hit John like a punch in the stomach.

"All photos?" He stammered.

Her landlady shrugged: "All, unfortunately. Is something wrong, John?” She added, “you're pale."

"No, no, I'm fine. Good evening."

"Thank you, dear."

John had a copy of Sherlock’s photos, taken when he was still living there on Baker Street, along with newspaper clippings of their solved cases, at least until he had decided to throw them away, following an angry and vindictive impulse, without thinking too much.

And now they were gone forever.

John felt a strange oppression on his chest and, if he hadn’t been a doctor, he would have thought of a heart attack.

When he stepped in the flat, Sherlock was playing the violin, and John looked at him in silence. His figure was still tall and slender, but compared to seven years ago, he didn’t stay awake whole days and nights to follow a case and he slept more; some gray hair began to appear among his very black curls, his mouth and eyes were surrounded by wrinkles left by time and events, and that morning at breakfast, John had noticed small spots on his hands.

Sensing his presence, Sherlock stopped playing and turned to look at him.

"Something wrong?" He asked, putting away the violin and moving a hesitant step toward him.

"You're getting old," John said heavily, as if he had only realized it at that moment.

"I'm not an immortal alien," Sherlock replied, almost offended, "the years pass for me too."

Seven years ago, Sherlock was different: younger, less tired, unstoppable; memories and moments of those years had been fixed on the photos, but John had destroyed them.

How was Sherlock's face seven years ago and how had it changed over the years? How were his smiles when they met? Without the photos, John couldn’t remember it clearly: his memory wasn’t so good.

Suddenly he sensed he had lost something immensely precious and irreplaceable, because of his stupidity, and he felt as if he had destroyed the work of an artist.

Rationally, he realized that he was being too dramatic, because, after all, they were only photographs, but then Ella's words came back to him:  _ "tears could be triggered by a motivation that seems silly to you" _ , and indeed he realized with horror that he was on the verge of tears, and he couldn’t do anything to stop them.

Sherlock walked toward him, now openly worried by his silence and his shocked face.

"John, are you okay?"

John looked at Sherlock’s face, the face that had changed over the years, and he couldn’t remember what it was like when their life was just a continuous adventure full of adrenaline and freedom.

Throwing the photo album into the flames, John had let himself be stifled with rage and he had lost something important. He had accused Sherlock of being the ruin of his life, but in reality he was very good at destroying it.

"I... I was so stupid,” he stammered, covering his eyes with one hand. “I burned all your photos and now they're gone..."

Then he began to sob and cry.

Despite Ella's recommendations not to hold back, he tried not to give in with all his strength, but in the end the tears turned out to be unstoppable. 

John cried for what he had thrown away, cried of remorse and because he mourned a time that would never come back, cried because he had never allowed himself to do it, and cried for no real reason, just because he felt incredibly sad.

Sherlock said nothing, didn’t try to rationalize, didn’t tell him that he was being silly and that he was behaving like a child, because he had learned the lesson: he no longer took John's presence for granted in his life, he didn’t step over his feelings like a tank, didn’t diminish his emotions.

Without knowing why, he remembered a part of the traditional marriage vows:  _ "for better, for worse" _ , and it didn’t matter that they weren’t a couple, this was what Sherlock wanted to be for John.

So he behaved like the person he wanted to be, like a true friend who is always there, not only when it comes to jumping into a new adventure, but especially in the most difficult times. He approached John slowly, put an arm around his waist, the other behind the back of his head and pulled him to is chest, resting his chin in his hair. He didn’t try to stop his tears, but he made John understand with his body that he was there and supported him.

Slowly, the sobs became less frequent and tears stopped falling; John lowered his hand, covering his face, and Sherlock walked away from him, though reluctantly, but probably now John needed space.

A part of John felt ashamed for crying like a baby, but Ella was right: it was as if, with tears, he had cried out also a treacherous and hidden sadness, which he hadn’t seen up to that moment. Just like a snowplow, tears had take that weight away.

"I don’t know what got into me," he murmured, but Sherlock shook his head. "Don’t apologize, it's all fine."

"But I'm really sorry for those photos. Christ, I was really an idiot to throw them away."

"If it comforts you, there is a place where they still exist."

"Where?"

Sherlock touched his temple with his forefinger.

"In your Mind palace? Did you keep them?"

"I have kept every moment of our life together," Sherlock answered solemnly.

"In spite of everything?"

"In spite of everything."

This time, when the tears returned, John didn’t even try to stop them; yet they were different tears, no more born out of pain but out gratitude, and his arms slipped around Sherlock’s thin waist, while Sherlock's embrace grew warmer and stronger.

It felt very much like a  _ "I love you." _


	20. 19. Gingerbread

The morning after John awoke rested, relaxed and happy, as it hadn’t happened for a very long time.

He went downstairs and found Sherlock already awake, preparing breakfast.

"Good morning John, did you sleep well?"

"Yes, and you?"

"Perfectly."

When John had stopped crying, the day before, there had been no embarrassment between them, they had accepted that further moment of clarification between them, and they spent the rest of the day as usual.

To tell the truth, there had been a little change: that evening they hadn’t sat in their armchairs, but on the sofa, because there was a documentary about mushrooms on tv that Sherlock wanted to watch, so he spent the evening explaining to John the different types of toxins contained in fungi and how they could be used for murder, with the same enthusiasm he had in the past.

It had been a beautiful evening, and John hoped that, from now on, all their days could be like that, finally: lighter, happier, with the heavy burdens left behind permanently.

"I'm making french toast," Sherlock said, bringing John back to the present, "do you want some?"

"Yes. Can I help you?"

"I'm almost done, just take the dishes."

Sherlock put the toasts on the table and sat on "his" chair, the one near the sink, while John, instead of taking a seat in front of him as usual, used the chair next to Sherlock. He did it without thinking, and he realized what he had done only because Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes.

Fearing he had crossed an invisible border, John was about to get up, but Sherlock hurried to pass him the teapot and the toasts, silently inviting him to stay.

It seemed that, unconsciously, John wanted to get closer to him, and Sherlock was absolutely fine with it.

"My God!” John exclaimed, looking up at the calendar, “It will be Christmas in a week."

"With all that happened, I have completely forgotten about it."

John hid a giggle behind the napkin, and Sherlock tilted his head to one side, smiling in turn, infected by John’s good mood, without even knowing why.

"What?"

"You would have forgotten anyway."

"Yes, you're right," he admitted.

"Don’t you care about Christmas, or don’t you like it?" asked John, intrigued. They had never talked about mundanities, but with the new direction that their relationship was taking, he could discover things about Sherlock that he didn’t know. And he wanted to know, he wanted to know everything about him.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair: "Do you remember when you found out that Mycroft was my brother?"

"It's not something you easily forget."

"On that occasion, Mycroft said that you could imagine our Christmas dinners. It wasn’t an exaggeration, our holidays have always been a nightmare, and we both worked hard to make them the worst possible. So no, I've never really loved Christmas."

As for the hot chocolate, John thought that Sherlock's answer was very sad: no wonder he had grown up considering feelings and emotions as something alien.

"For you, is it important?"

John smiled: "Yes, I like it: I've always associated Christmas with positive memories, well... at least until a few years ago."

"Yes, the last Christmas has been disastrous, even for my standards," Sherlock murmured, but John laughed again, because now it wasn’t hurting anymore.

"You can say it." Then a sudden idea came to him: "Hey, how about celebrating a real Christmas, this year?"

"How?"

"To hell with my sister, who will surely be drunk, to hell with Mycroft and your terrible family dinner. Let’s stay here, you and me alone, and have a memorable Christmas."

John felt sorry for Sherlock: he believed he had been deprived of the magic of Christmas, which would have been his right to have.

A slight blush rose to Sherlock's cheeks, in front of a John so eager to spend the holidays together. It was almost too good to be true, and until a couple of weeks ago, it would have thought that it was impossible, but then impossible things had happened.

And he didn’t want to miss that opportunity.

"Yes, it's a good idea, but…” Sherlock looked at the bare, unadorned living room, without even a decoration or some fairy lights hanging around, “are we still in time?"

"Yes, we are,” John laughed. “It doesn’t have to become the party hall of Buckingham Palace, it will not take long to cheer up the flat a bit."

Sherlock put his hands on the table, palms up: "I entrust myself to you, master."

John laughed again and bent his head in a playful bow. "I'm honored, I'll give you an authentic Christmas experience."

Of course, they weren’t innocent children anymore, and Christmas wouldn’t have the same taste, but John firmly believed that they both deserved something beautiful.

"Where do we start?"

John hesitated, then closed his eyes, and the smell of cinnamon, sugar, and doug resurfaced in his mind.

"We'll make a gingerbread house."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, betraying his doubts.

"Are you sure? Wouldn’t it be better to start with something simpler?"

"Simple wouldn’t be fun,” John proclaimed, getting up from the table. “Now I go to buy the ingredients and then we get to work immediately."

"I come with you."

"You hate shopping."

"Yes, well," Sherlock muttered, shrugging, "the Christmas experience wouldn’t be complete without it."

To tell the truth, he just wanted to spend as much time as possible close to John, and perhaps his voice or his body language betrayed his intentions, because the look that John gave him was that of someone who knew better.

John feared that Sherlock would behave as usual in the supermarket, complaining that shopping was boring and begging to leave, instead he was extremely calm: he helped a child to get a box of cereal from a high shelf, waited patiently in line at the check out, and even helped an old woman in front of them to put groceries in the bags (even if just to speed up the line).

"You are really nice, young man," the woman exclaimed, and John laughed internally: she would change her mind if she saw the fridge of their flat.

"You’re welcome," Sherlock mumbled.

"You’re also modest! Ah, if only I was twenty years younger..." she smiled, adjusting her glasses on her nose

"Maybe forty," Sherlock murmured in a low voice, facing John, and the former soldier had to resort to all his strength of will to not burst out laughing. He shoved him lightly with his shoulder, silently asking him to stop, or he wouldn’t hold back.

Seeing their exchange, the old woman turned to John: "Don’t worry, I was only joking: I'm not going to steal your boyfriend."

This was always the moment when John stammered a series of more or less indignant answers:  _ "We're not together, he's not my boyfriend, I'm not gay, you're wrong," _ but this time he just smiled and wished the lady good day. He hadn’t forgotten what Everett Ross had shown him, and how much his denial had hurt Sherlock in the past.

Surprised, Sherlock almost let the egg carton fall to the ground, but John grabbed it promptly.

"Careful: we have to make a dough, not an omelette."

"Y-yes."

Once home, they arranged all the ingredients on the table, but John noticed that Sherlock had bought too many.

"There are enough ingredients to make gingerbread for the whole neighbourhood."

"You never know."

"Sherlock Holmes,” exclaimed John, jokingly putting his hands on his hips, “do you think that the first attempt will not be successful?"

"Also the second. Let's face it, John: we've never cooked anything more complicated than opening a jar of pickles."

"It's just cooking, not rocket science."

"You are the optimist, I am the pragmatist."

In fact, John felt optimistic, and not just for the recipe of the gingerbread: the day had been perfect, he and Sherlock had laughed and joked like they used to do, and not even a shadow had crept in between them.

"I am,” he confirmed, looking at Sherlock, then pointed to the ingredients. “Come on, let's get to work, the gingerbread will not prepare itself."

They mixed the flour with the spices, but John thought that it looked pale compared to what he remembered, and added more cinnamon.

"Isn’t it too much?"

"There is never too much cinnamon. And put a lot of ginger, too: the powdered one is flavourless, compared to the fresh one."

Then, they had to add the butter; the dough, according to the recipe book, should have had a sandy consistency, but theirs looked more like a pile of volcanic stones.

"It can’t have already gone wrong," John exclaimed. "We've just started!"

"Maybe it will improve once the egg is added," Sherlock suggested.

"You say?"

"I have no idea: I have never prepared a dough in my life."

"No, no, you're right: I read somewhere that eggs help to tie the ingredients."

However, even with the addition of the egg, the dough continued to crumble under their hands. And the more they worked it, the worse it was.

Sherlock wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Maybe the doses are wrong."

"Right, let's add another bit of flour and another egg. It will be better than this, anyway."

After the addition, at least the dough was more solid, so they hurried to wrap it in the cellophane and put it to rest in the fridge.

Then they started to make the icing that would have to hold together the various pieces of the house.

They had to do it three times, because the first one was too liquid, the second one was so hard that it seemed cement, while the last one seemed quite good.

"I don’t understand,” Sherlock exclaimed, incredulous, “we used the same doses every time, why the result is always different? It’s scientifically impossible."

"One thing is certain: in another life we weren’t pastry chefs," John snorted, looking around: it seemed that a tornado had thrashed their kitchen, there were egg shells on the floor, sugar and cinnamon everywhere, flour on the fridge and on every cabinet they had touched, an unbelievable stack of bowls and dirty cutlery in the sink, and they still had to bake the dough and assemble the house.

John was afraid the task was too difficult for him, but he had promised Sherlock an authentic Christmas experience, and the gingerbread house would be there.

If the dough collaborated, obviously; but when they pulled it out of the refrigerator, it didn’t look good: it was full of cracks and the surface was oily, as if the butter had separated from the other ingredients.

Sherlock was about to say that they should throw it away, but then he looked at John and shut his mouth: the doctor was genuinely disappointed, so he took the rolling pin and began to roll out the dough, even if it continued to crumble.

"Sherlock, I don’t think that..."

"It doesn’t have to be perfect, the important thing is that it's good to eat."

"Yes, you’re right." 

John took a knife and carved the shapes for the little house: the walls, the roof and the chimney. Once that the dough was in the oven, in the kitchen began to spread the smell of spices typical of gingerbread, but when John opened the oven to check it out, he noticed that the dough was much more darker than it should have been: adding a handful of random ingredients hadn’t been a good idea.

Sherlock knelt beside him and peered into the oven.

"I'm sorry..." John started with a sigh, but Sherlock stopped him.

"No, it's okay, it's a contemporary house."

"How?"

"The walls are black because of the pollution."

John burst out laughing so hard he couldn’t keep his balance, and slid to the floor with a thud.

"You have to stop making me laugh,” he scolded Sherlock playfully, “like today at the supermarket, we were going to make a terrible gaffe!"

_ "No,” _ Sherlock thought,  _ “I made you sad for too long, I will not stop making you laugh soon." _

The assembly of the house proved to be as disastrous as its preparation: some pieces inexplicably crumbled during the baking, the surviving ones couldn’t be glued together with the icing: as soon as they assembled two walls together, the others collapsed miserably.

"What a mess!” John complained. “I swear that when my mother did it, it seemed much easier."

"As I said, the important thing is that it's good," Sherlock proclaimed, and brought a piece of gingerbread to his mouth, but he began to cough immediately.

"Oh god... is it so bad?" John murmured, tasting a piece of roof: there was so much cinnamon, that the gingerbread tasted spicy and nauseating. He had to run to the sink and drink a glass of water.

"You were right: it was too much."

"There's one positive thing," Sherlock said when he stopped coughing.

"What? That we tasted it, so we will not poison our landlady?"

"No: we can use glue to keep the walls together, as we are not going to eat it anyway."

John thought that Sherlock was joking and was about to throw the house in the bin, but he opened a drawer and took a tube of quick-setting glue.

"Are you serious?"

"An authentic Christmas experience, remember?"

And so, in the end, the house took shape: crooked, crinkly, decorated in a nightmarish way, not edible: the only place where it could stay, was in the living room of the Addams family, but while John was mortified by the result, Sherlock seemed to appreciate it, even if the doctor thought he did it just to not embarrass him.

However Sherlock surprised him once again.

"One last touch, and then it will be perfect," he said.

"Do you want to put a wrecking ball next to it?"

"No, this."

Sherlock took a spoonful of strawberry jam and spread it in front of the front door; John looked at him as if he had gone mad, and Sherlock explained, "It's an abandoned house where a murder was committed."

John laughed again, leaning on his shoulder.

"You're right, it's perfect."

Not in general terms, but for them, and that was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John do all you must not do when you make a shortcrust, so if you want to bake a gingerbread house, don't imitate them!


	21. 20. Christmas tree

Message received by Lestrade at 08.07 a.m.

_ "Sherlock, I need help." _

Message received from Lestrade at 08.18 a.m.

_ "Don’t make me beg: I saw that you read the message. You'll like this case." _

Message received from Lestrade at 08.42 a.m.

_ "Turn on tv and watch the news, if you don’t believe me: it's an inexplicable murder, we are at a loss." _

Message received from Lestrade at 09.56 a.m.

_ "I’ll give you carte blanche. I’ll send Donovan to work on another case, if that's what you want." _

Message received from Lestrade at 11.27 a.m.

_ "Please, I'm really in trouble." _

Sherlock ignored this last message, just as he had ignored all the previous ones.

He had seen the news, and the case was actually intriguing: a man had been found dead at the Stoke Newington Library that morning at the opening. The cctv showed that the man had never entered the library, but that wasn’t the most surprising part of the story: the same man, six hours earlier, turned out to be at a gala dinner in Montreal, so it was physically impossible that he had taken a plane, crossed the ocean, and died in the library before the opening of that morning.

It wasn’t about magic and the aliens weren’t involved, as some idiots speculated on Internet; there were four theories that explained what happened, perfectly logical and valid, but Sherlock didn’t want to think about it, because he wouldn’t take the case.

He had promised John that, that afternoon after his shift at the clinic, they would go together to choose the Christmas tree at The Christmas Forest, that was having a sale, so he wouldn’t be distracted by a criminal tangle, no matter how interesting, and he wouldn’t put John aside and ignore his desire to have a real Christmas.

Doctor Strange had shown him his mistakes and he had learned: he wouldn’t take John for granted in his life to pursue his nemesis. 

And he found that giving up that investigation was easier than he believed: he really wanted to spend some time with John, having lived so long without him. Perhaps he could deduce the life of some passerby while they were choosing the tree, to make John laugh again.

He had missed John’s cheerful and spontaneous laugh, and he wanted to hear it.

Seeing that he wasn’t answering to the messages, Lestrade called him several times, but Sherlock obviously continued to ignore him; he moved some furnitures and measured how much space they had to put the tree in the living room, then he went downstairs to borrow a box of decorations from Mrs. Hudson, who always had plenty of it.

"I am very happy for you," said the woman, while Sherlock sat on the floor, making a selection of the most beautiful ornaments, “For the both of you."

"I never thanked you for going to look for John, when I left during the snowstorm. I don’t know if we would have found each other, without your help."

Martha sat down on her old couch, placing a doily on the backrest.

"I like to think you would, like you did in the past: no matter how far you are, you have always found a way to get closer again. I only hope this is the last time: I start to get older and I would like to know you together definitely."

"Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock sighed, “John would surely remind you that we are just friends, if he were here."

"Friends? You don’t keep your mouth shut about your own attempted murder, and you don’t kill someone only for a friend."

Sherlock closed the decorations box and stood up.

"True, but this only concerns me. John sees me as friend and will not endanger our friendship by asking him something he doesn’t want."

"Have you ever asked him?"

"He told me."

"When?"

"When he asked me to be his best man at his wedding: I’m his best friend."

The old woman covered her face with her hands and sighed: "Sherlock, it was a lifetime ago, from that day everything changed. If you ask me, I don’t think John would have faced the worst snowstorm of the last forty years just to look for a friend. And if he thought of you as a friend, he wouldn’t come back to live here: he has the money from the sale of his house and many other options, but he hasn’t chosen them."

Sherlock blinked quickly, reflecting on her words.

"Mrs. Hudson, John is my light conductor, but you know how to be a beacon in the night, too," he said, kissing her on the cheek.

"Talk to him," the woman insisted in a imperative voice.

At that moment, someone knocked on the door, and Sherlock opened it: it was Lestrade.

"Can you tell me why you don’t answer the phone?"

"You know I prefer to message."

"You didn’t even answer those!"

"Well, I am busy," Sherlock dismissed him, going upstairs, but the inspector didn’t give up and followed him.

"Doing what?"

"Taking the decorations for the Christmas tree."

"Be serious."

"I am." The funny part was that he really was.

"Care to explain why you're making me beg? And don’t you dare to say it's not an interesting case, because I don’t believe you."

"I’m not a policeman, I don’t work for you: solving crimes is your job, until proven otherwise."

"You snuck into my office looking for cases less interesting than this, now I want to know why you refuse to help me."

"Oh, I'm personally dismayed that Scotland Yard is stuck in the dark, it's a sign that the safety of citizens is in the hands of a bunch of macaques, but I really have something more important to do."

Lestrade looked at him carefully: Sherlock was serious, and the inspector wondered what had turned his life priorities like that. Something vital without a doubt.

"If so, I leave you alone, but I will remember, the next time you come to me to beg for a case."

"Yes, I know."

Lestrade was already on the stairs, when Sherlock called him back: "If you really can’t figure it out, call my brother."

"Why?"

"Because it's Christmas, he has to do his annual good deed."

Lestrade didn’t immediately go to Mycroft, but decided to go to the clinic where John worked: first of all, he hadn’t seen him in a while, and then he was intrigued by Sherlock's behaviour. If anyone knew what he had so important to do, it was John.

He also hoped that John could make Sherlock change his mind: it was true that Sherlock wasn’t his subordinate, but the dead man was in the high society, and his superiors demanded immediate progress on the case.

When John saw Greg enter his room, time stopped for a split second, and John's mind was flooded by the worst scenarios.

The main reason why a policemen went to see people on their workplace, was to inform them of an accident that had involved a relative of theirs. In that brief but eternal instant, John believed something had happened to Sherlock, before he had time to tell him what he really felt for him.

Then Greg smiled reassuringly, that feeling passed and time began to flow normally, but that thought didn’t leave John’s mind.

"Am I bothering you? If you're busy, I can come back at another time," Lestrade began, seeing his frown.

"No, no, I'm just surprised to see you: it's been a long time."

"Yeah, we should see each other more often. How are Mary and Rosie?"

John realized that he hadn’t talked to anyone about what had happened to him, not to his few friends, or to his sister, too busy with his breakdown.

"My God,” he chuckled, rubbing his forehead, “we really should see each other more often, so I would avoid having to shock you."

"Why, what happened?"

"To make it short, Mary left and brought Rosie with her."

"Why? Where is she? With whom?"

"I don’t know the answer to any of these questions, and I’ve no desire to know."

"But she can’t do this, you are the father and have the right to see your daughter, you can’t give up so easily. Have you a lawyer, yet? Is Sherlock helping you to find them? Ah, that's why he refused my case, he's working on this."

John understood perfectly why Lestrade was so angry: he was a divorced father and his ex-wife made it difficult for him to see his children, so John raised his hands to placate him.

"Calm down, it’s not all: Mary confessed to me that Rosie is not my daughter, that's why I let her go."

Lestrade's expression was pure bewilderment: "What? John, I'm... I'm speechless... She seemed like a perfect wife. Christ, I can’t tell you how sorry I am."

"Yes, I've gone through a bad time, but now I'm recovering,” John said hurriedly, having no desire to revive what happened. “But you said something about Sherlock... did he refuse a case?"

"Yes, I’m investigating a complicated murder and begged him to help me, but he said he had more important things to do. When you told me about Mary, I thought he was dealing with it."

Sherlock refusing a complicated case was a strange happening, and John realized that lately he had done many unusual things, to accommodate him and give him space in his life, and it wasn’t right.

Of course, the new course of his life was good, it was what he wanted, but John didn’t want it to be at the expense of what Sherlock loved to do.

"It's my fault, in a way."

"How?"

"It's complicated. Listen, I'll talk to him and I'll try to convince him to accept the case, okay?"

"Good luck with that! I've never seen him so determined to refuse something."

When John went back to the flat, Sherlock was waiting for him in the living room, with his coat on.

"We have to hurry,” he urged, “or the most beautiful trees will be gone."

John sighed: exactly as he suspected, Sherlock had given up on the case to go with him to buy the tree.

"There are more important things than a Christmas tree."

"Oh, have you changed your mind? Do you prefer to make a Nativity scene? In that case we could place it here on the table and..."

"Lestrade came to the clinic."

"He doesn’t know when to give up: I've already told him that I'm busy and I will not deal with his stupid investigation!"

John took Sherlock by the sleeve of his coat and invited him to sit on the sofa with him.

"Listen, I really appreciate that you want to respect a commitment that you have taken, and that you haven’t run to the crime scene without telling me anything, but I saw the news and the case is not stupid."

"It doesn’t matter."

"Yes, it does. Please, forget what I told you when we had a fight: you are a consulting detective, the only one in the world. Solving riddles is what you do, it's a part of you, it's the aspect of you that struck me indelibly when we met,” John looked at his hand, still clutching the Belstaff cuff. “If you sacrifice and give up what you you love, you will eventually be unhappy, I know from experience. And I don’t want this, nor do I want to be the cause of your unhappiness."

"Is this what you think? That spending time with you is a sacrifice to me?"

"I hope not, but..."

"It isn’t,” Sherlock reassured him. “I don’t want to take this case, I prefer our authentic Christmas experience."

"Sherlock..."

"There will be other cases," Sherlock insisted. He would have liked to add  _ "but there will not be another you" _ , anyway, the fear of crossing an invisible border held him back. However, once again something of what he thought leaked out, because John looked at him with wide eyes.

He wasn’t as good as once he was to hide his feelings.

John was speechless, in fact; he had always boasted of being a good writer and an eloquent man, but now he was overwhelmed: he was important to Sherlock, he really was, more than his work.

Failing to articulate a meaningful sentence, he did the only thing he could: he grabbed Sherlock's hand, intertwining his fingers with his own, and somehow that gesture was even more intimate than their hug, because it didn’t come from the need to forgive or console, but only from the desire to feel close to him.

They arrived late at The Christmas Forest and, as Sherlock had predicted, the best trees had already been taken; they had to settle for a small, shriveled tree, that almost disappeared under the decorations and lights, but did its best to convey the Christmas mood, and John thought that it was perfect for the two of them, next to the too spicy gingerbread house.


	22. 21. Gloves

Despite the clarification, and having understood that Sherlock really wanted to spend time with him, John made it clear that he didn’t want Sherlock to stop accepting clients.

"I liked following the cases with you," John insisted. "Do you think that, if it wasn’t like that, I would have skipped my job until I got fired, to follow you on a crime scene? Or that I would talk about your investigations in a blog that had to be about my life?"

"No."

John leaned against the doorframe: "I never admitted it aloud, but maybe I need more than you the adrenaline of the cases. When I got married I thought I would change, but the truth is that the married life alone has never been enough for me: a month after the wedding, I was bored to death and I would have given anything to go back to follow a case with you."

Sherlock was incredibly surprised: he had always thought that getting married and having children was at the top of John's priorities, but what had happened along the years had shown him some hidden sides of his conductor of light, so that answer shouldn’t have surprised him too much.

He had often thought of John as his opposite: where he was abrupt and corrosive, John was patient and diplomatic, and he had used John’s help to decode the mystery of feelings and emotions, but perhaps, deep down, they were much more similar than what it seemed.

"Do you remember what I told Mycroft about us at Buckingham Palace?" John went on.

Of course, Sherlock remembered almost every word from John.

"We solve crimes, I blog about it and he forgot his pants."

John nodded: "Exactly: I'm your blogger."

"And I would be lost without my blogger," Sherlock murmured.

"I can’t really allow this."

Therefore, John greeted with a dazzling smile Sherlock's message he received while he was at the clinic:

_ "Jewelery theft at Guildford Castle. Are you interested? SH" _

_ "I'm coming," _ John typed, and then asked a colleague to replace him.

Actually he was thinking of reducing the hours at the clinic: now that he no longer had a mortgage to pay and that he shared the rent with Sherlock again, he had much less expenses, and arthritis and dripping noses couldn’t hold the confrontation with the riddles that Sherlock solved, especially when they took place in an ancient English manor.

John found Sherlock waiting for him sitting on the hood of Mrs. Hudson's Aston Martin.

"How did you convince her to give it again to you?"

"She says to think of it as a Christmas present, but not to get used to it."

On their way to Guildford, Sherlock told him about the case: the castle was open to the public, except for some rooms where the owners lived, and where someone had stolen the jewels. Fortunately, the safe was equipped with an alarm that was triggered as soon as it was pried open, automatically closing all the doors of the castle, so the thief couldn’t have escaped in any way. The security guards had rushed into the safe room immediately, finding it empty, but they had locked all the visitors in the main hall.

"So why are we going? Police has just to search who was there at the time of the theft."

"Here comes the interesting aspect of the theft: police searched visitors, but no one has the jewels on them."

"Then the thief has necessarily escaped without being seen."

"The windows can’t be opened, they are also equipped with iron bars, the parking lot and the garden surrounding the castle are surveilled: no one has gone out."

John straightened up on the seat: "Interesting."

"You can say it."

Once in Guildford, they were immediately received by the local police chief.

"The visitors inside the castle are becoming nervous: some say they want to leave and, without any evidence, I can’t hold them in forever, but the owner says that no one will move until he has the jewels back. It’s getting tense in there."

Sherlock asked to see the safe room and the map of the castle, which he studied carefully. John peered over her shoulder: the shortest route from that room to the castle entrance passed in front of the guard’s desk and the ticket office, and video footage confirmed that no one had left.

Before arriving at Guilford, John had speculated that the thief had hidden the jewels somewhere, perhaps in the padding of a sofa or behind a chest, to retrieve them when the waters had calmed down, but the castle was an austere and bare medieval building, with very few furnishings, that had already been examined by the local police.

The jewels seemed to have evaporated into thin air.

Two policemen were examining every inch of the route between the safe room and the exit, and exchanged opinions of what happened.

"It's the work of amateurs: when the alarm went off, they panicked and threw away the jewels somewhere in order not to be discovered."

"I think that, instead of tourists, we should interrogate the service staff, for sure it was one of them."

Sherlock wasn’t interested in the work of the officers, he walked the corridor that went in the opposite direction to the exit, and was looking at the garden.

"What do you think about their theories?" John asked.

"They're both wrong: it wasn’t someone who works here, because they would have had the time and the way to discover the combination of the safe without having to pry it open, and it isn’t the work of an amateur. On the contrary, this theft has been carefully planned."

A smirk made its way on his face, and John nudged him: "You've already discovered where the jewels are hidden, right?"

"Yes."

"And do you know who stole them?"

"Someone who's down in the hall for sure, but to find out who they are, I need your help."

"I'm here for this."

Sherlock smiled again, but it was different this time, it was sweet, his eyes shone, and he radiated a subtle and quiet happiness, just because John was there with him.

How could he have thought that Sherlock was a machine without feelings?

The former soldier had to fight a terrible lump in his throat, and also to restrain the impulse to hug him in front of everyone: after all, they were working.

"Ask them these questions," Sherlock said, passing the notepad to him.

John read quickly and frowned at that string of random questions:

How many times a week do you order a pizza at home?

Are you vegetarian?

Does anyone in your family suffer from Mediterranean anemia?

On average, how much do you spend per year for small repairs at home?

How long does it take to you to go to work every day?

Have you ever been in a Southeast Asian country?

"Uh... are you sure these questions will help you?"

"Just one, to be honest, hidden in plain sight. Do you trust me?"

John put a hand on his arm.

"Yes, I do," he said firmly. He was sincere, and wasn’t talking only about the investigation.

He hoped that Sherlock understood it.

"Mr. Holmes,” said the chief of police, “the situation in the hall is degenerating, people want to leave."

"I need only half an hour, a shovel and a hammer," Sherlock proclaimed, leaving the castle, while John reached the hall and began to question the visitors. Predictably, many of them were puzzled by the questions and some complained that they were a violation of their privacy.

At one point, John saw small heaps of snow flying everywhere beyond the window in front of him, followed by handfuls of soil, and finally a deafening noise of a hammer against metal.

The owner of the castle rushed to the window to see what was happening.

"Agent, you must arrest that man” he shouted to the police chief, “he is destroying the drainpipes!"

"What?"

John ran out with the two men, in time to see Sherlock recovering from the rotten and stinking water a piece of iron net, encrusted with disgusting residues and a heavy plastic bag with the stolen jewels, that he handed back to his rightful owner.

"How did you find them?" The chief of police asked, astonished.

“Easy: the soil in front of this window is darker, it has been moved recently."

"Yes, I did some repair works on the drainpipes of the castle toilets last month," the owner confirmed.

"Toilets that are on the same floor of the safe room: one of the workers saw it and elaborated the plan; when he fixed the pipe out here, he inserted a iron net inside, that would have stopped a fairly large object, like this bag."

"But none of the tourists who are now in the castle were among the workers, I remember their faces."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed by his stupidity: "Obviously a partner in crime came today: he pried the safe open, but instead of running away to the exit, where he would be seen and stopped, he went to the toilet and threw the bag in the drain, the the bag was stopped by the net. The worker would be back at night to retrieve it."

"And who is the culprit?"

"John, among the people you interviewed, who spends less for home repairs?"

"Um... William Blair: He says he can do a lot of work on his own, and his cousin helps him... he's a plumber."

Sherlock spread his arms: "Here is your couple of thieves."

The police chief and the owner ran into the castle to arrest the culprit, while John stayed in the garden with Sherlock.

"You've been amazing!" He exclaimed, and Sherlock hid a smile behind his scarf.

_ "Like it was once, like it should be between us." _

"Let's go," said Sherlock, walking toward the parking lot. "I don’t want to spend the afternoon in the police station for the statement."

"As usual,” John chuckled, “Okay, let's go. Wait a minute, where are your gloves?" Only then he noticed that Sherlock's hands were bare.

"I took them off to unscrew the net inside the pipe, but if we go back now, the police will hold us back. It doesn’t matter, I have others at home."

The ride to the parking lot wasn’t short and it was really cold.

"Put your hands in your pockets, or you’ll have chilblains."

"I can’t, they're dirty!"

Without thinking, John took Sherlock's right hand with his left, completely unmindful that it had been inside a dirty drainpipe.

"So at least one will stay warm," John muttered without looking at him. Taking Sherlock by the hand was becoming a pleasant habit: he loved to feel the strength of his grip, and his pleasantly dry skin; it was a connection that gave him a sense of stability, but he still held a hint of modesty and hesitation, because he didn’t understand where the border was. He was still learning.

"Thanks," Sherlock muttered in response.

"Another successful case, then," John exclaimed, sitting in the car.

"Mh, not quite, to tell the truth: there is still the fence who would have bought the stolen jewels. The thieves belong to the middle class, they wouldn’t keep jewels so flashy, they just wanted to monetize them."

"Do you think you can find him? You have almost no clues and certainly those two will not confess another crime."

"Of course I will: I am Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock froze as soon as he uttered those words, and his mind raced back to the day John had beaten him, yelling that no, he wasn’t.

So when John's hand rested on his, squeezing it with infinite delicacy, and he whispered, "you are, the only one in the world", Sherlock’s heart overflowed with a bright and warm joy.

He silently thanked Stephen Strange, who had shown him his mistakes, and allowed him to make up with the only person he had ever loved.

Because, although feelings were sometimes a dark and complex enigma for him, Sherlock was perfectly aware of his feelings towards John: it could only be love and, since John had returned to Baker Street, sometimes Sherlock seemed to glimpse the same feeling in his eyes.

"So,” John exclaimed, “let's go and get this fence!"

"Yes."

Later that night they ran off through the alleys of London, pursued not by one, but by five criminals. John noticed a open truck parked along the road, grabbed Sherlock by the elbow and silently asked him to climb on it. They hid there, waiting for the criminals to pass beyond them, and they climbed down only when they were sure it was safe.

"I didn’t foresee they would be so many," Sherlock apologized.

"It's also my fault: I should have brought the gun with me. Have you already message Lestrade?"

"I'll do it right away."

Sherlock pulled out the phone from his coat pocket, and John saw that he was without gloves again.

"You really risk to freeze your fingers," John rebuked him.

"Um... I can’t find my other pair of gloves," Sherlock mumbled.

John's lips spread in an irreverent smirk: he saw through Sherlock’s excuse by now and understood that he simply loved to hold hands with him.

He said nothing, however, and just took his hand, pretending that it was just to keep it warm.

A few days later, as he was cleaning in the living room, John saw the finger of a black leather glove peeking out from under Sherlock's chair. 

He smiled, pretended not to see it, and kept cleaning. However, his mind inevitably began to wonder if they could explore other manifestations of affection, more physical, besides simply holding hands. That was beautiful, but they were both men approaching middle age, not teenagers in the ‘50s.

John wanted it, he had been thinking about it since Ross had shown him that Sherlock had feelings for him that went beyond friendship, but he didn’t know how to ask: Sherlock wasn’t a one night stand, he was fundamental in his life, and therefore he had to doing things the right way.

That evening they watched another documentary sitting together on the sofa.

It had become a tacit habit, now: sometimes there was a bit of space between them, but more frequently John ended up falling asleep on Sherlock’s shoulder, or the consulting detective pressed his icy feet under John’s thigh.

"It's late, I'm going to bed," John said, getting up, but then he stood still in place, shifting his weight from one foot to another, suddenly nervous.

Sherlock turned off the tv, and looked in the direction of his bedroom, as if he were about to say something.

_ "Does he want to do it? Does he want me to go to his bedroom with him? Yes, it's true, I thought about it, that's what I want, but isn’t it too early? Should we talk about it?" _

Confused thoughts darted into John's brain, and eventually he gurgled a hesitant "g-goodnight", before retreating to his room upstairs, leaving no time for Sherlock to say anything.

Once the door was closed, he thudded his head against it several times, until it hurt.

"I'm an idiot,” he hissed, “a huge idiot... why the hell did I get cold feet now?"


	23. 22. Mistletoe

"We have a match: the pollen on Hillman's jacket is the same found on the upholstery of the Nibleys bedroom," Sherlock said.

They were in the laboratory at Barts: Molly had granted them the use of the hospital's microscope, more powerful and precise than what they had at home.

"So the wife has a lover? I would have never said it."

"In fact it is not her."

"Then who?"

Sherlock lifted his lips in a little smirk.

"John, Occam's razor is a good methodological principle, but it's not always true."

"Do you mean it's the husband?"

"Yes: that man is clearly bisexual."

John snapped his mouth shut, and Sherlock lifted his head from the microscope to look at him.

"Is it a problem to you?" He asked, suddenly wary.

"No. I'm just surprised, I didn’t realize he was. If I had something against bisexuals, I would have something against myself: I had relationships with men in the past."

It was almost surreal to admit it aloud in a hospital laboratory during an investigation, but since,in the last few days, Sherlock had left clues to make him understand that he wanted more than just a friendship, it seemed right to do the same. 

And he wouldn’t panic again.

"Including Major Sholto?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. You had understood it during my wedding day, right?"

"Mh. Do you... see him again, sometimes?"

"No, it ended a long time ago. I was attracted to his charisma and admired his moral integrity, but I don’t think it would work between us in the long run."

"Why?"

"He is too respectful of the rules, for my taste."

Sholto would never have approved some of the things John had done, assisting Sherlock in his investigations.

Sherlock took a deep breath: "John, listen..."

"Yes?"

"Oh, are you still here? How is it going?" Molly asked, opening the door.

Sherlock looked back into the microscope, and John hated her deeply for the interruption.

"Everything was fine, until a moment ago," he muttered in a low voice.

Sherlock bit his lip to keep from laughing, while the girl looked at him, puzzled.

"Sorry John, did you say something?"

"No, nothing, Molly," he replied.

"Do you like the Christmas decorations I hung up?"

The laboratory was next to the morgue, and always looked a bit gruesome, but the bright garlands made it more lively.

"Yes, they are very nice."

"My favorite one is the mistletoe."

"Oh, and where is it?"

"There, above the door. In fact, since you've gone under it..." Molly giggled.

John looked up at the door, but saw nothing.

"Are you sure you haven’t hang it somewhere else?"

"No, no, it was here this morning: someone took it."

"Well," Sherlock said, closing his notepad, "I have all the clues I need. Come on John, let's go to Lestrade, so we can stop a big scam on an insurance company."

Sherlock marched quickly out of the lab, leaving John the duty to say goodbye, as usual, while Molly continued to wonder where the mistletoe had gone.

John understood why Sherlock hated so much to give statements at the police station: you had to wait forever in a room, fill out ton of forms, and repeat the same things three times. For this reason, he said nothing when Sherlock snuck out with the excuse of going to the toilet, but instead he sneaked into the archive, looking for some other unsolved case.

"Where's Sherlock?" Lestrade asked as he entered the room. He had two coffees in his hand and handed one to John.

"Do you really want to know?"

"Hey," the inspector joked, "where is the voice of conscience that keeps that tosser out of troubles?"

John blew on the hot drink: "Believe me Greg, I've never been anything like that."

"You look well," Lestrade observed. The tone of his voice betrayed surprise, and John didn’t struggle to understand why: for those who didn’t know what had really happened, he was a poor husband abandoned by the wife.

"I'm fine, now that I'm living at Baker Street again."

"I wouldn’t recommend anyone to live with Sherlock, it would be like advising a juggler to perform with sticks of dynamite, but good for you, if it works."

"What is it, are you giving me your blessing?"

"Do you need it?"

"Absolutely not," John said, signing the statement.

Sherlock appeared on the door, telling John that they should go, and Lestrade pretended not to see the dusty folder sticking out from under his jacket.

Sherlock and John had almost reached the lift, when Donovan called them.

"Hey, you can’t leave like that!"

"Why?" John asked defensively. If she wanted to hold them back just to insult Sherlock again, John would have given her a piece of his mind. He had never appreciated her jokes, but after realizing that words hurt terribly the Sherlock’s soul, he wouldn’t allow it anymore.

The woman pointed her forefinger upwards: "You know the tradition, you have to... where did it go?"

"Sergeant Donovan, what are you talking about?"

"There was a sprig of mistletoe hanging from here."

"I don’t see anything," Sherlock said. "Make sure you get a pair of glasses for Christmas."

When they entered the lift, John glanced at Sherlock, but he was already engrossed in the reading of the folder stolen from the archive.

It seemed that the old case was extremely interesting, because Sherlock spent the whole evening doing research and flipping through some scientific journals. 

John didn’t bother him: he knew it was useless to talk to Sherlock when he was so focused, but he took some time to observe him.

Sherlock was always fascinating, no one could deny it, but when he worked, he was something special: his grey eyes darted from side to side, he drew charts in the air with his long, thin fingers, chasing thoughts and creating links between them, his lips opened up as he murmured theories; it was impossible for anyone to take his eyes off him.

It would have been wonderful to be able to pet his curls, or to plant a kiss on his lips.

_ "Well, maybe these aren’t observations anyone would do, maybe they belong only to someone who is in love," _ he thought. Like him.

However, that wasn’t the right time to talk about it: Sherlock was doing research on building materials from the ‘50s and wouldn’t even hear him.

For the second evening in a row, his purpose failed miserably.

"It's late. Goodnight Sherlock, don’t be too late."

"I... yes, thank you," Sherlock stammered. 

It was not what he wanted to tell John: as it had happened the night before, he wanted to hold him back to finally tell him what he felt, but he had been slow, and the right moment had faded again.

"I'm an idiot," Sherlock muttered, taking his head in his hands, “a colossal idiot."

The next morning, down the stairs, John heard Mrs. Hudson discuss with Sherlock.

"You should help me," the woman exclaimed, "or what's the point of having a detective as a tenant?"

"I investigate murders, not jokes."

"What's up?" John asked, entering the kitchen.

"I am the victim of a crime, and Sherlock refuses to help me!"

"Is it true?"

"No," Sherlock snorted.

"Yes," Mrs. Hudson insisted, "someone keeps stealing the mistletoe I put over the door."

"They're just kids who have nothing better to do, I will not waste my time on this."

"Then I will guard the door personally."

Mrs. Hudson left, and John put the kettle on the stove; his gaze had darkened, because he suspected something.

"There's a strange epidemic of mistletoe theft."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, hiding himself behind the morning paper, and that gave John the proof that he was the culprit.

"Didn’t you notice it? At the lab, at the Yard, here at our house. Wherever we go, it seems that the mistletoe disappears."

"Coincidences."

John put some biscuits onto a tray, then handed it to Sherlock.

"Get one, they're your favorites."

"No thanks, I already had breakfast."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I don’t want them now."

"You don’t want them, or you can’t take them because you've just touched a poisonous plant?"

"John, I..."

So it was true: Sherlock had been the one to remove the mistletoe everywhere; it seemed that he really didn’t want to kiss John, given his commitment to that boycott.

John was rather confused: after they had hugged, and Sherlock had found every possible excuse to hold his hand, this went in the opposite direction.

But if Sherlock wanted nothing more than a platonic friendship, John could only accept it.

"Wash your hands, you touched a poisonous plant."

Sherlock obeyed in silence, but took forever to dry his hands in a kitchen towel.

"If you want things between us to stay this way, that's fine," John said, hoping to mask the disappointment in his voice. "But thinking back to the direction we've taken in the last few days, I thought... I'll be honest with you," he added, sighing, “you're sending mixed signals about what you want from our relationship."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "I hate mistletoe."

John scratched an eyebrow, perplexed: "Er... I think I’ve understood this, but it doesn’t answer my question."

"Why do people kiss under the mistletoe?"

"Because it's a tradition."

"Exactly!” Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air, “anyone who walked under that damned plant kisses: Mrs. Hudson with Lestrade, Mike with Molly... just because it's a tradition, but there's nothing behind that kiss. It's like saying 'bless you' to someone who sneezes, or shaking hands with a person you just met."

"Is that?" John asked, incredulous, but also relieved, as he began to understand the misunderstanding.

"Yes! I don’t want to kiss you because it's a tradition, I want to kiss you because it has a meaning!" Sherlock continued, and his words exploded like a bomb in the air.

John wasn’t an innocent soul, he was a grown ass man who giggled at dirty jokes, but he was sure he had never blushed so much in his life.

Sherlock hadn’t intended to confess his feelings so clumsily, almost brutally, but now it was all in the sunlight, at least.

Moreover, as he had learned, sincerity was always the best choice: John's body language betrayed surprise (he didn’t expect it to happen that way, too), perhaps a bit of embarrassment (he was thinking about the kiss), but not rejection.

"There's no mistletoe now,” John exhaled, “what are you waiting for?"

Now or never.

Sherlock covered the distance between them in two strides, pulled back a lock of hair from his forehead (the posh git), surrounded John’s face with his big hands, and kissed him.

Without hesitation, without shyness, without barriers, instilling in the decisive movement of his lips all the ardor and desire silently repressed for all those years. 

In that kiss Sherlock showed John an equally true and hidden part of him, the sensual and physical one, which was rarely seen, because he had never felt the spark of attraction to anyone. Only to John.

John didn’t immediately respond to the kiss, he was too shocked. He couldn’t deny it, it wasn’t like he had imagined it. In his mind, there should have been only a touch of his lips, followed by an embarrassed giggle, not the disruptive emotions that spilled from Sherlock’s lips, devouring his.

He recovered quickly, clinging to his shoulders, and returning Sherlock’s feelings with equal heat.

_ "It’s like that, when you kiss someone you really love," _ he thought, then Sherlock stroked his tongue with his, and John's thoughts stopped altogether.


	24. 23. Giving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's where the rating goes up, lovely crickets. Watch your steps, if you don't like it ;)

Sherlock moved his lips away from John's only to kiss his nose, cheeks, throat, jaw, and stop on his ear, where he whispered in a low, breathless voice: "We can stop, if you want."

John's brain, still overloaded by endorphins, reacted a few seconds late.

"You can’t ask me something like that,” he protested, resting his nose on Sherlock’s neck and inhaling the scent of his skin, “not with that voice."

"What about my voice?" Sherlock asked, faking innocence and lowering his tone.

A shiver of pleasure ran down John's back.

"Are you trying to kill me?" He gasped, clinging to his shoulders.

"No John, I absolutely want you alive and engaged in what we’re doing," Sherlock replied, before kissing him again.

He was unexpectedly good, he knew exactly what he was doing, how much pressure to apply and when to flick his tongue, and it was a fresh shock for the former soldier, who had imagined Sherlock clumsy and awkward when it came to sex.

A thought struck him suddenly: Sherlock had had sexual experiences in the past. Perhaps only to get information, perhaps out of boredom, perhaps out of mere curiosity to experiment, perhaps in exchange for a vial of cocaine, but John found himself burning with jealousy for each of those faceless people, men or women,.

It was hypocritical of him, since he had a pretty long list of girlfriends and also a wife... and thinking about Mary, John realized that, when she had confessed that Rosie was the daughter of another man, John didn’t even bother to ask or discover who he was, and that, in the storm of negative feelings that had emerged in him, jealousy wasn’t there.

Suddenly, he almost laughed hysterically and had to rest a hand on Sherlock's chest to distance a bit.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked with a small smile; he thought that John’s reaction was caused by the chemicals of the brain: an excess of endorphins could induce a state of euphoria.

However, John put his hands on his hips and shook his head several times, licking his lips, as if he couldn’t believe his own thoughts.

"I am fucking jealous of anyone who has been with you in the past."

"None of them matters," Sherlock said quickly, because it was the truth, but John didn’t stop giggling.

"Yeah, I imagined this, but I'm still jealous. But do you know what is the funniest thing of all? I'm not jealous of the man who fucked my ex-wife. What does this tell about me?"

A wave of triumph, destabilizing in its impetuosity, overwhelmed Sherlock.

_ "Good," _ he thought, with almost childish satisfaction: it was probably selfish of him, because he hadn’t always put John in the first place in his life, in the past, but every time John had dated a girl, every time he didn’t go with him on the scene of a crime to be with a woman, when he got married, Sherlock had felt hurt, then, hearing John say he was jealous of him, was glorious.

The laughter subsided, and when John looked up at Sherlock, he was serious again.

"I should have chosen you."

Sherlock lunged at John, unable to restrain himself, and pushed him against the kitchen door. He had always desired everything about John: his company, which was like an anchor that prevented his life from drifting, but also his body. He didn’t often experience physical attraction and he ignored the needs of his body, but not when John was involved, not now.

John gripped his waist hard and breathed in his scent again, like he was already addicted to it.

Sherlock kiss him, as if within a few minutes he could no longer do without it; the former soldier didn’t oppose any resistance and seemed to be on the same page of him, but Sherlock needed to hear his words, because what was happening between them would change everything.

"John,” he murmured, resting his lips on his cheek, “tell me that you want this."

Another incredulous laugh shook John's chest: "Can’t you deduce it?"

"Not right now."

John had never seen him like this: breathless, feverish, his voice hoarse with desire, his hands on his hips trembling.

"Oh god, yes."

Sherlock's hands lifted the edge of John’s shirt and met his bare skin, then he slid to his knees and rested his face on his stomach, sticking his tongue out to taste his sweat.

John held his breath for this unexpected turn: Sherlock was a continuous surprise and he wouldn’t stop. The thought destabilized and excited him at the same time.

It excited him a lot and Sherlock, who was a few inches from his crotch, noticed his straining erection.

He rested his fingers on the elastic of John’s pajama trousers and looked up at him

"Yes?"

"Yes, but not here. The last thing I want is to be interrupted by someone."

Sherlock got up, quick and agile, took him by the hand and dragged him to the room; he lingered for a few moments in the bathroom, emerging with a tube of petroleum jelly, that he placed on the bedside table, then closed the door behind them, leaving out everything that wasn’t the two of them.

He let his dressing gown slip from his shoulders, pulled his shirt off his head and tossed aways his trousers, revealing that it was his habit not to wear underwear, under John's thirsty gaze.

"Do you need a hand?" Sherlock asked, walking up to him, openly disappointed that John was still dressed.

"You can’t blame me if I want to enjoy the show."

"I want it too," Sherlock murmured, and his hands worked quickly to deprive John of his clothes and to gently push him onto the bed. 

There Sherlock’s smell was more intense and John wondered confusedly if he had developed a strange kink about it.

Sherlock crawled on the bed, imprisoning John under his limbs.

"You're magnificent, John,” he whispered, stroking his chest with the back of his hand, “perfect."

"Stop it," John snorted.

"It's the truth, and I want to show it to you. I've taken so much from you over the years, let me give you this."

"Give what?"

"My complete devotion."

John exhaled a trembling ‘yes’ and closed his eyes, while Sherlock venerated his body with his lips and hands.

He kissed every inch of his chest, stroked his hips, licked his navel, and John's whole body was shaken with shivers of pleasure; then, without any warning, his penis was enveloped by the moist heat of Sherlock's mouth for more than half of its length.

His eyes widened and he cried, arching his back, pushing it even deeper, until it touched Sherlock’s throat.

"Sorry, sorry," he stammered, but Sherlock didn’t bat an eyelid and continued to suck it non-stop; he grabbed John's left wrist and put his hand in his hair, letting him dictate the rhythm.

"God, Sherlock..." John murmured, gripping the dark curls between his fingers, making him moan.

John's taste and smell surrounded him completely, and Sherlock already knew he would be enslaved forever to it; it was his new drug of choice, and he would never have wanted to detox.

John closed his eyes again, because the sight of Sherlock between his legs threatened to make he come far too quickly.

There was a short pause, Sherlock knelt and his wight shifted, then he came back to him. This time it was his right hand, covered with vaseline, to grip his erection, while with his left he tickled his testicles and slid lower and lower.

"Wait, we don’t have..." John objected, but Sherlock interrupted him with a kiss.

"We don’t need condoms, you did a test for STI a few days after learning about Mary's cheating, and I do it regularly along with a drug test, as part of an agreement with my brother."

John nodded and hooked a leg around Sherlock's back, silently telling him he understood.

When Sherlock's fingers massaged his hole, he stiffened: he wasn’t averse to what they were doing, but that it wasn’t a usual role for him. 

Nothing that had happened in the last hour was usual for him, but it was impossible not to be overwhelmed by Sherlock's storm of feelings, his incandescent desire for him, his eyes overflowing with adoration.

Sherlock's mouth closed again around his glans, and his tongue worked wonderfully to distract him from the annoying but necessary intrusion.

John's hand let go of Sherlock's hair, and the doctor covered his face with both arms.

"Easy,” he pleaded, “I'm almost there."

A few preliminaries, although exciting, had been enough to bring him to the brink of orgasm, and it said a lot about how intense his sentiments for Sherlock were.

"Tell me you're ready," Sherlock panted, kissing the inside of his thigh, “I need you. "

"Yes," John said, and Sherlock's mouth covered his again, as he gently slipped inside of him, thrust after thrust.

John screamed, scratching his shoulders and back, grabbing his buttocks to encourage him to rocket harder.

Sherlock, on the other hand, slowed down and opened his eyes to read the ecstasy painted on John’s face and imprint every moment of their intercourse in his memory.

John moaned, annoyed at the break, and lifted his hips to push Sherlock deeper inside him.

"Please…"

His cock, smashed between their abs, was as has hard as marble.

Sherlock covered his face with adoring kisses and began to move faster and faster, without a rhythm, driven only by his instinct and hunger.

John brought a hand between their bodies and it only took a light touch on the very sensitive tip of his cock to be shaken by a powerful orgasm.

His body tightened around Sherlock and John felt him tremble violently as he came inside of him.

"John... you're everything," Sherlock's feverish voice whispered in his ear, when the tremors had subsided.

John had never felt so loved in his life, and realized that Sherlock had given him something that he had never given to anyone, all of himself; he kissed his sweaty curls and hugged him tightly to himself, before closing his eyes and falling asleep.


	25. 24. Gift

John awoke a few hours later because of a strange sensation, like a burden on his chest.

He slowly opened his eyes and saw that Sherlock was still fast asleep on him; he also noticed that, despite his feet were perpetually icy, the rest of his body was better than a stove to keep warm. 

He smiled.

Since he had nothing to do and was still worn out by sex, he didn’t move. He just brushed Sherlock’s hair and the tip of his nose, as if to make sure that it really happened.

He had expected at least a small crisis due to the welcome but unexpected turn that had taken their relationship; however he realized that it was the natural conclusion of a long journey started seven years earlier in the Barts laboratory, and his only regret was that it didn’t come earlier. It could have spare to them lot of useless suffering.

He put his hand on Sherlock's back, closed his eyes and went back to sleep, at peace with himself and the world.

When he opened them again, he and Sherlock had changed position in their sleep, and now the consulting detective was spooning him plastered to his back.

John pushed the heavy duvet aside and tried to get up, but Sherlock's arms closed tightly around his chest.

"No," he protested weakly, kissing his neck.

John brought Sherlock’s left hand to his lips with an amused smile, and kissed his back.

"I need the loo and to take a shower."

"All right," sighed an annoyed Sherlock, "but then come back here."

John walked to the bathroom door, then a thought suddenly struck him: now everything was allowed, no more doubts or hesitations, and a bubble of happiness popped in his chest.

"Do you want to join me for the shower?" He asked, and Sherlock's sleepy eyes widened.

"What a brilliant idea! That's why you're my conductor of light."

"Glad to help," John chuckled.

Sherlock jumped out of bed and joined him, making any task extremely difficult for John, even opening the water tap, since Sherlock gave him no break with his kisses.

At one point, Sherlock blocked him against the sink, and looked at him with a disbelieving smile, running his fingers over his stubble.

"It grows much faster than mine."

John chuckled: "It's true, I have to shave every day. I'll do it after a shower."

"I didn’t say it for this reason."

"Then why?"

Sherlock struggled to explain what was stirring inside him, because it was the first time he had come face to face with those feelings.

"Now I can see how fast your beard and your fingernails grow, how hard the sucking must be to leave a hickey on your neck, I can experiment how long you can sustain an erection, and how many times you can come over a day. The idea makes me euphoric and I can’t explain why," he concluded, frowning in a lovely way.

John giggled, and stood on tiptoe to kiss the wrinkle between his eyes.

"I think you have just described the concept of intimacy. In your abstruse language, of course."

"Is that strange?" It probably wasn’t what people said to each other after having sex.

"Yes,” John laughed, “you're barking mad, but I love it. And I understand it, somehow."

"Really?"

"Hm. Some hours ago I woke up, naked, with you sleeping on me, and I didn’t feel any discomfort or embarrassment, it was just..."

"Natural?"

"Yes, exactly. We are intimate now, and we can see every part of us, the funny parts,” one of John’s hand petted Sherlock’s rebellious curls, “the sensual parts,” the same hand went down to playfully pinch his butt, making him yelp, “and even the most painful parts,” he concluded, kissing the round scar on his chest. “There are no more barriers between us."

"John..." Sherlock took his face in his hands and kissed him with the same intensity and dedication of the first time: John suspected that all Sherlock's kisses would always be like that, no brief pecks on the lips for him.

"And I have to say that I'm very interested in the experiments you want to do on me," John murmured, dragging Sherlock under the hot water spray.

A dollop of bubble baths made the shower infinitely more pleasant and interesting, as their hands slid over wet skin and their breathless moans filled the air. 

This time it was John who wanted to show his devotion to Sherlock with kisses and caresses, touching old and new scars, squeezing his muscular arms, and gently biting his long neck. John felt him tremble under his hands every time he brushed him, and he was delighted by the way Sherlock's body reacted to him.

Their erections didn’t take long to awaken, and when they accidentally came into contact they both groaned with pleasure.

"It's wonderful,” Sherlock whispered feverishly, rutting himself against John without any control over his body, “you make me lose my mind."

John dragged his lips along his clavicles, and rocked his hips against Sherlock's.

"It’s completely mutual, you know," he gasped. He reached for the small shelf and grabbed the first bottle he found, Sherlock's conditioner. He poured a generous dose on his palm and grabbed their erections, and his hand immediately pumped their stiff cocks in a unrelenting rhythm.

Sherlock's knees gave way, and he had to cling to John's shoulders, while the pleasure clouded his brain.

"Please,” he sobbed, “warn me the next time you're about to do something like that."

"How you didn’t do before?” John asked, closing his eyes - I thought you were killing me with that blowjob."

"Get used to it,” Sherlock whispered, “Because I want to wake you up like that every morning."

John's hand lost his rhythm, he swallowed noisily at those sinful words, and his cock hardened even more.

"You like the idea,” Sherlock stated with a smirk, pushing himself into his tight fist. “Hmm, faster."

"Bossy."

"And then I want to find out everything you like. Everything, John."

John's stomach quivered, and he felt his testicles tightening.

"I want a lot of things with you, Sherlock," John warned, biting his earlobe.

"Good," Sherlock growled. His hand joined John's, completely enveloping their erections, and his head collapsed on John’s shoulder as the orgasm exploded.

John grabbed his waist, to keep him from slipping to the ground, and continued to rut against Sherlock's thigh.

"Yes, John," Sherlock murmured, and his voice was like the rumble of thunder, low, vibrant, sensual. "Like that, like that..."

"God..." John buried his face in Sherlock hair and came for long, excruciating seconds, while Sherlock did not stop murmuring nonsense on his shoulder.

He had also a kink for Sherlock's voice, as well for his smell. Or maybe he had a kink for Sherlock, period.

They came out of the shower on shaky legs, wiping at each other and still stealing small kisses, until the idyllic mood was broken by the embarrassing gurgling of John's stomach.

Sherlock had a look somewhere between amused and deeply offended.

"How can your body think about food at a time like this?"

"How can your body not think about food! This morning we didn’t have breakfast and now it’s..."

John hadn’t the faintest idea what time it was, but it must be quite late in the afternoon. Sherlock had really made him lose track of time.

He put on his dressing gown and shuffled to the kitchen, chased by Sherlock's complain.

"Do you really want to eat?"

"I have to, or your experiment on my stamina will not go anywhere."

"In this case, okay," Sherlock agreed.

"And you will eat too."

Sherlock didn’t want to do it: food slowed his mind, and now he had a myriad of new data about John that he had to catalog in his Mind Palace.

But he discovered that it was difficult, not to say impossible, to deny something to John, when he gave him a bright smile filled with affection.

_ "He always cares about me," _ he thought.

His heart filled with gratitude, and he joined John in front of the stove.

"I’ll have something sweet, maybe a cinnamon omelette with berries."

"I had no doubts,” John laughed, lifting his face to kiss his cheek, “I think I’ll have scrambled eggs with tomatoes, olives and a mountain of bacon."

Sherlock slipped an arm around John’s waist, kissed his temple and gently pushed him toward the chair.

"I will do it: consider it my Christmas present."

John stiffened in his arms, and Sherlock let his arm fall, hesitant: offering to cook for the partner was a nice thing, right?

"I'm really the biggest idiot on the face of the earth!” John exclaimed, slapping a hand on his forehead, “I promised you an authentic Christmas experience, and I didn’t even buy you a gift."

"It does not matter, John: this Christmas was the most beautiful of my life, I swear."

Reassured, Sherlock returned to hug him and to rest his lips on his forehead, but John shifted, uncomfortable: trust him not to give up a social convention.

"But I really wanted to give you a gift, and instead we're here on Christmas Eve, and I'm empty-handed."

"John Watson,” exclaimed Sherlock, taking his face in his hands, “you are my gift: your presence in my life is all I want, I don’t need anything else."

"Hey!” John protested, “now don’t make me cry again."

He rested his face on Sherlock’s chest and closed his eyes: he consider Sherlock’s presence in his life a gift, too, a priceless gift, because without him his days were dry and empty, and perhaps a whole life wouldn’t have been enough to show him how much he loved him.

Because he loved him more than anything, and maybe that was the perfect time to tell him.

"Ah, but come to think of it, I have a gift for you.” John raised his head and smiled, “even if it's not something material."

"Whatever, it will be fine."

John put a finger on his lips, inviting him to shut up a few moments, and his gaze became fierce and solemn.

"Sherlock Holmes, I love you."

Sherlock's eyelashes flickered fast, and his whole body was paralyzed in shock: John loved him.

"You... me?"

"I love you," John repeated, assertive, honest, joyful.

All Sherlock’s thoughts vanished, the constant flow of deductions that always ran through his his mind stopped, even his Mind Place disappeared for a while: there were only John’s words,  _ "I love you" _ .

He heard them, but more than anything else he felt them in every fiber of his body.

He had never thought that those simple three words had the strength of a hurricane, able to upset and shake him. 

Two tears slid down her cheeks, promptly dried by John's gentle fingers.

"Are you okay?"

"John, John, John…” Sherlock repeated his name several times, like a mantra, an invocation, a prayer, “I love you too."

They stayed like that, in an almost suffocating hug, listening to each other's breaths and to the beats of their heart, enjoying the warmth of their bodies.

They were John and Sherlock, alone against the rest of the world, and nothing existed outside of them.


	26. 25. Christmas day

Someone had pulled the blanket away and, in his sleep, Everett grunted, annoyed by the sudden cold. He moved in search of the warmth of his husband's body, but the bed was empty.

"Stephen..." he muttered, but he got no answer.

Reluctant to get up (Christmas was one of the few days he didn’t work), he stretched an arm to retrieve the duvet but he couldn’t find it.

Exasperated, he opened his eyes and saw that it was the cloak of levitation that had taken the cover.

It was dressed up with Christmas garlands and was dancing gracefully in the air.

"What's up?"

The cloak wrapped around his arm and dragged him off the bed, as if to say,  _ "It's Christmas, get up!" _

"All right, all right, I get up," Ross laughed.

After taking a shower, he put on his dressing gown, left the bedroom and his eyes widened in surprise: the dark and austere rooms of 177A Bleecker Street's were gone, and it seemed to be inside Santa's house at the north pole.

Christmas carols vibrated in the air, there were decorations, fairy lights and multicolored garlands everywhere, Christmas trees along the corridor and beautiful fern frost on the windows; a strong black coffee, his favourite, awaited for him in the kitchen, along with apple pie, Christmas pudding, and a tray of delicious butter shortbread biscuits.

Living there, Everett was (almost) used to magic, but that morning Stephen had managed to make him speechless: it was like moving and breathing in the very essence of Christmas.

The cloak pivoted in front of him questioningly.

"Of course I like it, it's extraordinary."

Over time, Ross had also learned its silent language. His work colleagues goggled at him when they saw him talking with a piece of clothing, but he no longer paid any attention to them.

After the delicious breakfast, he took the tray of biscuits and stood up.

"Come on, let's go find my crazy husband: all of this is wonderful, but it makes no sense if I can’t share it with him."

The cloak vibrated with agitation.

"What's wrong, is he in trouble?"

The cloak dragged him up the stairs and down the corridor to Strange's office, where Wong's irritated voice came from.

"Magic is not a plaything: only because you can move between universes, it doesn’t mean that you’re allowed to interfere with events there."

"I didn’t," Strange answered in an innocent voice.

"Stephen..."

"I didn’t interfere with anything," Strange insisted. "Everett and I only showed two people their mistakes: what they decided to do later, they did it out of their own will."

Ross moved away from the door and spoke to the cloak again.

"Ah, is it for our foray into the world of Sherlock and John? Damn, Wong just sounds angry."

At that moment the door opened and Wong came out, glaring at him.

"I was hoping that, by marrying you, Stephen would become more sensible, not that you would indulge his madness."

"It was a common decision: we were visiting the different universes where our alter egos live, and when we got there, we saw that those two were behaving like idiots and we pointed it out to them. Just that."

"It's against the rules," Wong insisted, not happy at all.

"Who are you, the Grinch? If our intervention has helped two people to be happy again, there is nothing wrong with it! Come on, get a biscuit,” he urged, “maybe you sweeten up."

Wong glared at him, but then he looked down at the tray full of biscuits, took it and disappeared into a portal.

A few seconds later Strange came out of his office, scratching the back of his head.

"Damn, I thought he wanted my head."

"I'm sorry.” Everett hugged him and kissed him sweetly, “Wong should be angry with me, since I insisted on fixing things between John and Sherlock."

"Oh no, I would never have allowed this."

When Strange had told him that in some parallel universes lived their alter egos, initially Everett believed he was joking, so Strange had taken him to observe the lives of each of them. 

They lived in different eras, they did the most various job, sometimes they also had a different appearance, but there was a constant in all the universes: they were together and in love.

So when he witnessed the painful break between Sherlock and John, and he saw how unhappy and alone they were, Everett had asked his husband if they could do anything.

He had noticed Stephen's hesitation, and he knew that probably he had asked for something that was forbidden, but then Stephen had kissed him, and told him that they could, if they didn’t excessively interfere with the timeline, so they had worked out their plan to get those two back together.

"It's like a disturbance in the Force, isn’t it?" Stephen had said.

"I couldn’t have said it better: it disturbs me to see how badly they are hurting each other, that's not how it should be between them."

"We can’t allow them to behave like idiots."

"Exactly, let's go to work."

"I think Wong actually understood,” said Strange, bringing Ross back to the present, “it's just that he always has to act like a rigid guardian of the laws of magic, but he's not as angry as he looks: he accepted the biscuits after all."

"By the way, did you see how it ended between Sherlock and John?"

"Everett, I once saw 14 million different futures, of course I saw it."

"And…? Come on, don’t keep me on my toes: I want to know if our intervention has worked."

"I can do better," said Strange, drawing a circle of golden light in the air.

"Can we go see? After what Wong said?"

"Let's just take a peek," Strange answered, winking, and Everett kissed him again.

"You are incorrigible."

They entered the dimensional portal and found themselves in an untidy living room, with walls covered with photographs and documents, piles of newspapers and books everywhere, and the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink.

"Ah, I see they are working on a new case," Strange observed.

"Yes, but where are they now?"

In response to Ross's question, from down the hall came a rhythmic noise, like something banging against the wall, and a sequence of unequivocal moans.

Ross turned to his husband, his face a deep shade of red

"You could have chosen another time to come here!"

"Why? You wanted to know if they had made peace and this seems like the best proof."

Obviously Everett was happy for them, but the situation was too embarrassing to stay, so he took his husband by the arm and dragged him toward the portal.

"Let's go, before they find we’re here."

"We can take it easy, right now they seem too busy to notice us."

"It doesn’t matter, come: leave them to their Christmas morning, and let's celebrate ours."

"Are we gonna do what they’re doing?" Asked Strange, leaning over him to kiss him.

"Well, when I woke up this morning, you weren’t in bed, so I couldn’t say you ‘Merry Christmas’ as I wished to do," Everett murmured, responding to the kiss.

"Ah, I'm really unforgivable. Let’s go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I take this opportunity to thank every of you for your priceless support, and I want to wish everyone happy holiday.  
> I hope that they are peaceful days and you’re with people who love and appreciate you, but if you are surrounded by people who let you down, who don’t understand your interests and think that they stupid and meaningless, if you write and you aren’t appreciated, if you draw and you aren’t appreciated, if you are a fan of anything and you aren’t appreciated, go away from them and dedicate a few moments to what you love.  
> You deserve it, believe me.


End file.
